


The Depraved

by coplins



Series: Volatile Chemistry 'Verse [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (the abuse of medical drugs is temporary and will not develop into an addiction), Angels are Dicks, Anxiety, Bottom Sam, Car Sex, Coming Out, Consensual Underage Sex, Crisis of Faith, Depression, Disregard for canon lore, Domestic Violence, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Gay Bashing, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, Internalized Homophobia, Love, M/M, Major Original Character(s), Painkillers, Past Infidelity, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Underage, Piercings, Religious Guilt, Sex Toys, Sexuality Crisis, Slurs, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Tattoos, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, big age difference, misuse of painkillers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-01 20:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 52
Words: 339,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4032760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coplins/pseuds/coplins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2009 Sam Winchester, 16 years at the time, meets and seduces a 17 years older married hockey player. Tom Rainsborough.  This forever changes Tom's life as he falls head over heels in love with Sam, despite them only meeting a handful of times over the years. This is glimpses into his life, and it takes off in 2014 when Tom has had to retire due to injury and has to resign himself to never ever getting to see Sam again as far as he knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Moments in time

**Author's Note:**

> Only read this story if you're really interested in knowing more about Tom. If you haven't read chapter two of The Sexual Education of Sam Winchester and chapter 14 + 18 in the Croatoan this makes very little sense I suppose. In Volatile Chemistry Tom is only mentioned, but never seen.
> 
> The rape/non-con warning is for mentions of past experiences in Tom's youth. Not graphical.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom has finally been forced to leave his career as a hockey player due to a series of unfortunate injuries. His last injury has ensured he'll never be able to play the game he loves professionally again. This chapter shows brief glimpses into his life after retirement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A note that is important about Tom's POV.** \- Tom is not a reliable narrator. He has a very distorted self image so don't take what he thinks and says about himself at face value.
> 
> Also, If depression, suicidal thoughts, and self-destructive behaviour/thoughts are triggers for you - Tom's POV is **NOT** for you.
> 
>  **Warnings for this chapter** :  
> \- NSFW image  
> \- Dubious consent  
> \- Mentions of past rape  
> \- Low self esteem/Internalised homophobia/depression  
> \- Implied suicidal thoughts

## Moments in time - winter/spring 2014

There’s a special place in hell reserved for him.

Sometimes it feels like he’s already there. His very soul is falling to pieces, ripped to shreds and engulfed by darkness. He’s always numb on the inside nowadays. Nothing really matters anymore. Nothing is fun. There is _nothing_ to look forward to. He's just going through the motions. And the brief moments he doesn't feel numb, he's heartbroken. Even when things makes him smile it just reaches the outer layers, never his core.

There is a special place in hell reserved for him. And instead of seeking redemption he seems fully set to secure it. He’ll burn for all eternity for the memory of a young body, a dimpled smile, and eyes full of devilish allure.

The memories come paired with ever present longing, with dreams of a carefree life. Dreams of making love on lazy Sunday mornings, of arguing over whose turn it was to do the dishes or pick up their child from daycare. Dreams of holding hands in public, of romantic dates and falling asleep together in front of the TV. Dreams of rough fucks on the couch or in the shower, of lying in bed talking all night, telling each other things no one else would ever get to know. And those dreams hurt more than he cared to admit since he could never have that. Not with the kid. Not with anyone.

He regrets a lot of things in his life. But the one thing he regrets more than anything else was that on April the 30th 2011, he hadn’t chosen to forsake his home, his family, his children and his career to run away with the boy of his dreams. They could have left the country, gone to a secularised country with progressive laws on same sex marriage. Some of the nordic countries perhaps? His demon boy had been in such a vulnerable state at that time. He regret not taking advantage of that and just burnt all his bridges. But that's not true either. He couldn't leave his children or he would have. He loves Jessi and Noah too much to abandon them. Neither could he take advantage of somebody he loved when they were as vulnerable as Sam had been then, just pulled back from the brink of suicide. Yet Sam’s confession that he would have run away with him then had his mind circling in endless _could have, would have, should haves_.

He is not a good man. He’s depraved. Eaten from the inside by disease of mind and heart. Luckily for him he never contracted the “faggot plague” or any other STD. No, his disease is his perversion and what it made him do. The constant lying to everyone around him and to himself. Seeking out random hookups when he got the chance. It was never what he longed for―he preferred deep and meaningful relationships―but he took what he got even if it happened to be a quick fuck in a dirty bathroom with a stranger. He hurt his wife by cheating on her. Hurt her by being repulsed by her sexual touch to the extent that he only could lay with her if he was drunk out of his mind. Hurt himself by doing it anyway. _He_ doesn't deserve better, but she did. She did not deserve a hellbound _sodomite_.

In a way it had been innocent enough (no, it hadn’t) up until 2009. He kept his romances and hook-ups to men in his own age. He sought long term involvement and even with one night stands he wanted the pretense of lovemaking as it was something he could never have for real. He would still look and lust for boys in their late teens and early twenties, but he’d never act upon it. He saved those urges for jerk-off sessions so wrought with guilt he almost felt like throwing up afterwards. But then _he_ happened and life would never again be the same.

He still remembers the purr in the sixteen year old boy’s voice when he said _“Come on Tom. Corrupt me. Ravage me and ruin me for anyone else in the future…”_. And by God and all that is holy in the world, that’s exactly what he had done, except it had been him that was ruined for anyone else. The kid had seen right through him. Seen everything bad about him without judging him for it. On the contrary, each sin Sam had uncovered had just made the kid more and more aroused. He had been the perfect combination of heavenly innocence and devilish temptation. Nervous and inexperienced yet full of youthful bluster, taking what he wanted.

He had never felt so free and alive as he did when he was with the kid. One night with Sam was all it took. He was head over heels, irreversibly in love. His kid catered to his every need. The need for love―to nurture and care, to _make love_ , to fall asleep curled together, to protect and comfort. But also to his dark urges―to dominate and defile. To ravage and own. To fuck without inhibitions. The kid was in control and knew it. Even when he resigned control he called the shots. He saw beyond Tom’s mask. Saw what a worthless lowlife he really was, but didn’t judge. He gave Tom love for both his good sides and his bad, and by doing so he set Tom free, made him a full human being for the first time in his life. There was no going back from that.

There’s a special place in hell reserved for him, and he would not repent.

* * *

The man in bed with him is older than him, but he has a lot of similarities with the kid. This is what his kid might look like when he turns fifty. The resemblance is enough to toss caution overboard and spend the night. There’s a lot of things that are wrong too. His scent, the shape of his cock, his voice. But close enough to turn off the lights and make love to a fantasy.

* * *

He doesn’t _like_ to hurt his partners. But right now he can’t be made to care. The boy prostitute claims to be 23, but looks like 19. He isn’t as fit as the kid is, nor is he as tall, but he has dimples, the same hair colour, and a similar voice. Over all close enough for Tom to give in and pay for sex for the very first time in his life. He fucks the boy roughly into the mattress, ignoring the pained whimpers, because _his_ kid could take it and this boy is getting paid. Of course he would stop if told to, but he hasn’t made that clear to the boy. He's very selfishly taking advantage of the fact that the boy doesn't utter the words "stop" or "no" out loud. He yanks the boy up by his hair so they’re standing on their knees, chest to back, slightly leaned back for thrusting leverage. His other hand comes around to take a light choke hold on the boy, just as he had done to Sam. _His_ kid had made him squeeze harder, this one tries to make him remove his grip. He doesn’t. The hold is symbolic and doesn’t restrict breathing. He sucks a possessive mark on the boy’s neck while the memory of words spoken years ago echoes in his mind. _“Whose am I Tom? Tell me!”_ He comes with the memory of Sam’s voice ringing in his skull. His instinct is to stay and take care of the boy afterwards, prostitute or not. He doesn’t. There isn’t enough time. He needs to get home with the groceries before his wife starts wondering what is taking him so long. So he just tips the boy an extra 200 bucks for a job well done before he leaves.

Afterwards the guilt and shame hits him like a sledgehammer and he has to pull the car over to sit and do breathing exercises to calm himself. He _hates_ himself for what he just did. Nevermind that paying for sex is a new low even for him. Most of the guilt concerns how he treated the young prostitute. How he disregarded his body language and justified himself by the fact that the boy didn't verbalise any protests against the rough treatment. It was ugly, disgusting behaviour from his part. The boy might not have dared voice any protests, thinking he wouldn't get paid (he would have, of course). It was truly revolting how rotten he'd become to even be capable of such abominable act. It was downright cruel to impose full responsibility to say "no" on somebody in a dependent position. No matter what was pre-agreed upon it was nothing short of coercion and that thought alone made bile rise in his throat and his stomach churn. He wants to go back. Find the young prostitute again and ask if he was okay, beg his forgiveness, and find out _why_ he sold himself like that. If there was something Tom could do to make it up to him or help him out.

He doesn't. He waits until he is calm enough to brave traffic again and drives home. The tight knot of anxious worms crawling in his stomach and a heavy lead weight of shame pressing down on him, constricting his chest. He carries the groceries inside, gives Grace a peck on the cheek, hoping she wouldn't smell the residue of sex on him. He takes a shower, scrubbing himself clean of sweat and the lingering smell of latex and lube on his dick. Then he gets dressed and eats dinner. Smiling and asking his children questions about their schoolwork, and Grace about her latest church project. He wonders how they can't see it written all over his face, what he'd done, what he's become. He wishes it all could be over. He wishes he owned a gun.

* * *

He wins a grand on the lottery. Happy, he grabs the phone and finds his kid’s number. His finger hovers over the call button but he doesn’t call. He has no right. Instead he imagines calling and sharing the news and planning how they would spend the money together. Recalling the sound of his kid’s laughter. Then he flips to his daughter’s number and presses the call button instead. “Hey, pumpkin. Guess what?”

* * *

He holds the expensive leather jacket in his hands. It would fit perfectly on his kid. Fuck, he’d look so hot in it! His kid wouldn’t be able to afford it, but he could. But he has no right. He sighs and puts it back. He buys a gold necklace for his wife instead.

* * *

He replays the hockey clip over and over on youtube. His kid scores a goal and the camera zooms in on his happy smiling face. He increases the pace of his strokes and feels the orgasm building. It overtakes him with the image of his kid’s jubilant smile burned into his retinas. The guilt comes washing over him afterwards. He is disgusting for wanting another man's touch so badly. For lusting after someone almost half his age. But it wasn’t his beloved kid’s fault. There was something wrong with him since birth. He never fit in. He tried so hard living by God's and his family's rules. He did. He really did. Outwardly he did everything right in the beginning. Despite that his mind and heart would never be content. He knew he had the devil in him when the priest preached about the damnation of sodomites and all he could think about was what it would feel like to touch the priest in dirty ways. He has a beautiful wife. A good and pure woman. He loves her. He does. Yet he feels molested and dirty every time he has to lie with her. He has to be blind drunk to get it up without being nauseated by her sexual touch. It’s because she is pure and he is diseased, steeped in sin and dark urges. 

He deserves all the pain that comes his way. The coach that raped him when he was 16 saw through him. Saw how he failed to comply to the will of God, how filthy and bad he was. The messed up thing was that no matter how used and worthless he felt after the coach had used him, he still didn’t feel as molested as he does when he has to sleep with his wife. 

Worse, he’d come back for more. To get punishment for being a lost cause. Despite being degraded and humiliated by the coach he'd jump on any chance at getting the sexual touch of another man. To feed the sickness in him that made it impossible to abide by God’s will. He doesn't deserve better. No matter how much he prayed or how much time he devoted to the church the attraction to men remained. He deserved the abuse. He deserved the pain. He just wished he didn’t.

* * *


	2. The Swingset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom is sitting on the swingset in his backyard, ruminating about his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings for this chapter:**  
>  \- Mentions of domestic violence  
> \- Underage smoking/drinking
> 
>  **IMPORTANT:** I need to say this about the domestic abuse part in this chapter.  
>  A) If somebody hits you, you need to know that it's wrong. They don't have the right to do so and you don't deserve it even if you willingly have done something wrong towards them. The thing is - if you hurt them emotionally they have the choice to leave you and walk away. There is no such thing as "Look what you made me do." You don't make somebody harm you, it's still their choice to do so and they have **responsibility for their own actions** no matter what.  
>  B) Men are also frequently victims of domestic violence and verbal abuse. We tend to ignore that fact since men are physically larger than women and society puts different expectations on men and women. But who hits and who doesn't is connected to what happens inside our heads, not the size of our bodies. It's not more okay because the perpetrator is a woman. If you hit/throw stuff at/call your partner nasty things - take a good look at yourself. If you're so displeased with the relationship that you feel you need to do that - it's time to leave.

## Late April 2014

* * *

The swingset in the backyard creaks softly. A small complaint about Tom’s weight as he swings back and forth, looking out over the yard and pool in the pinkish orange light of the dusk. He hasn’t been this depressed since his late teens when he tried to end his own life. If it wasn’t for his children he would have bought a gun and made sure he succeeded where he had failed as a teen. But he couldn’t do that to Noah and Jessi. They didn’t deserve the trauma, and they were the only bright spots he had left. Jessi would go to Stanford to study sociology in the fall. Part of him was glad she would move so far away. This place was toxic. Religion was part of everything in this town and did not leave room for diversity and free thinking. He didn’t want it to kill his childrens spirits as it had killed his. But hopefully they didn’t have to face the same internal struggle as him. Didn’t have to hear how depraved and filthy they were―how they were infested by Satan’s taint and how the world would be a better place if they and “their kind” were eradicated―every Sunday at church. Not like him. _Faggot_. He hopes it isn’t hereditarily. And if it is, he hopes his children are far away from this town when they discover their attraction for their own kind.

At least nobody here in town knows. He has hidden it well. He takes a swig of the half empty whiskey bottle he’s been keeping rested against his thigh, grimacing at the burn in his throat as it goes down. He’ll never see the person he’s in love with again, except on TV. A fitting punishment for being degenerated. It may have been lust at first sight but it only took a few hours to fall in love. He’d been in love before, but never like this. Time has always before healed his broken heart. Not so now. The wound is as raw as ever. Sam is more often than not his first thought in the morning and the last before he falls asleep. Despite the fact that during a period of six years they’d met less than ten times. The worst thing is that he knew for the start he could never have him. Not even before his career ended. The age difference made sure of _that_. He had no right to be part of Sam’s life. Had nothing to offer. Sam―his kid―deserved better than another older man preying on him. Sam may be 21 this year but to Tom he would always be “kid”. 

As always, thinking of his kid brings a myriad of feelings to life in his chest. Warmth, longing, pain, and a shitload of guilt and self-disgust. Sam had been sixteen when they met. _Sixteen_. It didn’t matter that Sam had been the seducing party. Tom should have resisted him, but didn’t. If that wasn’t proof enough how depraved he was, he didn’t know what was. A man his age shouldn’t lust for anybody―boy or girl―that much younger. It was statutory rape, even if his kid had begged him for it. There was no forgiveness for that. Tom was doomed to burn in hell for it. God could never forgive him a sin of that magnitude. And Tom can’t bring himself to repent. He can’t regret what he’s done.

He feels guilty of course. Guilty towards his wife, Grace, for not being able to love her as anything but a friend or sister. Guilty towards his children for not being able to give them the happy home they deserve. Guilty towards Sam for taking what he offered. Guilty towards God for not being able to stay on the path of righteousness. Guilty for all the lies he has to tell to cover up that he is homosexual and that he has clandestine affairs. Guilty towards old boyfriends for leading a double life and not coming out of the closet. Guilty for being drawn to boys in their late teens and early twenties, even if Sam is the only one he has hooked up with under the age of consent. The weight of it all is crushing.

Then there’s the fear and anxiety. The fear of being outed and the repercussions that would bring. His parents would disown him. His wife would prevent him from seeing his children. His children might get bullied or beat up for having a faggot father. He himself might get killed for it in this town. His children comes first. Nobody is more important than them. There’s no one on Earth he loves more than Noah and Jessi, not even Sam. But Jessi is 19 and Noah 17. Soon they both will leave the nest and once they do he’ll have _nothing._

He can’t remember a time when he didn’t have worms of anxiety twisting in his stomach, making it hard to fall asleep. It has always been less during the hockey season when he travelled a lot and could drop the charade and be himself from time to time. But that’s over now, thanks to his damaged knee. He takes another swig of the whiskey, this time without making a face, then rests the bottle on his thigh again. The slow swinging back and forth is soothing. He remembers pushing Jessi and Noah in these swings when they were small. Their delighted laughter and demands for him to go higher. The memory makes him smile. It was years since he last saw anyone use these two tire swings. Grass has grown over the patches underneath that used to be bare dirt due to feet dragging back and forth over it. 

The evening air is still pleasantly warm from the hot spring day they’ve had. On impulse he kicks off his Crocs and digs his bare feet into the grass. It chills his feet but feels good nevertheless. With one hand he digs up his packet of cigarettes from his pocket, takes one out using his mouth and puts the pack in the hand holding the bottleneck to fish up his lighter. He lights the cigarette and puts the lighter and packet back in his pocket. He takes a deep drag of smoke, holding it in. It burns his throat and threatens to make him cough. He blows smoke rings and watches them dissipate.

He hears someone coming from behind and turns his head. It’s Noah. It doesn’t occur to him to hide the cigarette. He has enough to hide as it is already. “Heya Champ. What are you still doing up?” he asks with a soft smile.

”Nothing…” Noah comes around and sits down on the other tire swing. 

”Mom might get mad at you if she finds you here,” Tom warns tiredly.

Noah shrugs. ”Mom left. She’s at grandma's. Said she’d be back tomorrow. Besides, it’s Friday. No school tomorrow.” Noah studies him with a concerned expression. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

Tom shrugs a shoulder and takes another drag on the cigarette, blowing another set of smoke rings before he answers. “I didn’t. Started when the doctors said I would never play professional hockey again. I know it’s dumb, but…” he shrugs his shoulder again dismissively.

”Can I have one?”

Noah looks surprised when Tom hands to packet over. “Don’t tell mom.” He shouldn’t give Noah cigarettes really, but the boy is 17. In one year he’ll be allowed to buy his own cigarettes and alcohol in most states and if he really wants to try he’ll find a way whether Tom allows it or not. Noah lights a cigarette and hands the pack back. He takes a deep breath of smoke and lets it out slowly, holding the cigarette in a way that looks habitual. “That’s not your first cigarette,” Tom says with a small lopsided smile.

”Don’t tell mom,” Noah says with a little smile of his own.

Tom huffs in amusement. “For how long have you been smoking?”

”Since I was sixteen… are you mad?”

Tom shakes his head. “Nah. Just stay away from drugs and don’t drink and drive.” He offers Noah the bottle of whiskey. Most likely he has already had alcohol before too, even if Tom and Grace never have allowed him to have any. Now is as good time as ever. 

Noah chuckles bemusedly but takes a swig and makes a face. “Thanks,” he says and hands the bottle back. They smoke in companionable silence for a while, swinging softly and showing off by blowing smoke rings. It’s silly perhaps, but Tom prefers this to Noah being out at some high school party somewhere. When Tom has finished his cig Noah speaks again, the concerned look back in his face. “Dad…?”

”Yes?” Instead of answering Noah reaches out and touches Tom’s cheekbone. Tom flinches at the pain. He’d forgotten about the bruise, numbed by whiskey and the hollow feeling inside of him. “Oh. That. I was reaching for some things on a shelf in the shed and had a little accident,” Tom says.

Noah frowns. He hesitates. “Dad… Jess saw the fight.”

”Shit.” Tom looks away from Noah. Can’t meet his son’s eyes. He takes another swig of whiskey and leans his head against the chain, looking at the pool, now a black mirror in the fading purplish light. “I deserved it,” he says.

Noah is quiet for a while. But it’s the quiet of somebody wanting to talk but unsure if they should or may. “Was it… was it the first time?” he asks tentatively.

Tom takes yet another swig of whiskey, the worms of anxiety twisting into a hard knot in his stomach. He hands Noah the bottle without looking and lights another cigarette for himself, fidgeting. What the hell is he supposed to answer when his son asks such a question? “Your mother is a good woman, Noah. I’m not… I’m not a good man. I try to be, for your sake. But sometimes I fail. She’s within her right to be angry and disappointed at me.”

Noah puts his feet down and stops his swing abruptly. “So she _has_ hit you before?” he says, sounding upset. Tom feels his cheeks heating up from shame. He doesn’t like speaking badly about Grace in front of the children. He doesn’t want to lie either. “Dad. Has she?” Noah demands.

”I deserved it.” And he did. Grace never meant to hurt him. Not really. But he stole her life. She was head over heels in love with him when they got married and he married her knowing full well he could never love her back the same way. He married her because it was convenient. Because their families approved. Used her as a cover so no one would know he was gay. They had sex maybe once or twice a year and he had to be blind drunk to go through with it. Jessi was conceived on their wedding night and by knocking her up he doomed her to a lonely life as a housewife while he was away seven months a year coming home only a few days every month since his (former) team was located in another state. And when he came home he spent as much time as he could with Noah and Jessi. At first she had thought his lack of interest in sex was because he was pious, but when she caught him bearing hickeys she understood that the problem wasn’t that he wasn’t interested in sex, the problem was that he wasn’t interested in sex with _her_. Of course she turned angry and bitter at that. Who wouldn’t? He tried to make it up to her. Take her and the children on exotic trips during the summer, bought her presents, swept her away on romantic weekends in Europe. But in the end it wasn’t enough to replace the love she deserved. 

”Oh my god. I thought Jessi was exaggerating. Jesus Christ!” Noah is upset. He takes a swig of whiskey and rubs a hand over his face, drags fingers through his blond hair.

”I’m sorry.”

”Have you ever hit her?”

”No!” Tom is appalled at the very idea and turns his head to look at Noah. “You should never hit a woman, Noah. Especially not one you love. We are much stronger and bigger than them. It’s our job to protect them with our strength.”

Noah snorts. “Yeah I get that. I just don’t think it’s right that women hit us either. I mean look at you. You’ve got a black eye. And you’re bleeding for god’s sake!”

Tom takes a pull on his cigarette and touches the small cut on his cheek, below the bruise by his cheekbone and eye. “This was an accident. She didn’t mean for this to happen.” She had thrown plates and one had shattered against the wall next to his head. A shard had nicked his cheek. Possibly, she _had_ meant it. But he deserved that and worse.

”Dad. Don’t make excuses for her. ‘Ts just plain wrong. Jess is angry at both of you because of the fight. She’s angry at you for cheating on mom. Is it true? Did you?”

Tom takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, looking his son in the eyes. He’s almost an adult. He deserves as much truth as Tom can give him without outing himself. At the same time he second guesses the wisdom of telling his son. It’s not Noah’s burden to bear. But he doesn’t want Noah to blame Grace for his failings to be a good husband. “Yes. I’ve cheated on your mom repeatedly over the years,” he confesses and holds out what’s left of the cigarette to Noah.

Noah looks stricken. He probably hadn’t believed Jessi on that point. He takes the cigarette and hands Tom the whiskey. He smokes the cig in silence while looking out over the pool. Shaking his head now and then as though he’s having an inner argument. “But why? Don’t you love mom?” he asks at last and looks at Tom with pleading eyes.

Tom drinks a mouthful of whiskey. Liquid courage. “I love your mom very much. But… I love her like a sister. So I have a problem touching her like a husband should touch his wife. That’s why I cheated on her. I was selfish. That’s why I deserve this.” He points at his bruise. If he wasn’t drunk already he probably wouldn’t be so forthcoming. He’s probably going to regret it later. 

”Do you… Do you love the woman you’ve been cheating with?” Noah asks uncertainly, like he doesn’t really want to know the answer.

Tom smiles a humourless smile and looks down on his feet, pulling at the grass with his toes. “It doesn’t matter who I love. There’s nobody I love more in the world than you and Jessi. And you are here so here’s where I belong. I’m sorry Jessi saw the fight and you had to know about it. You should not have to worry about our problems. It’s not in any way your responsibility or fault and you should never have to choose sides because mom and I will always be on _your_ side, okay?” Tom looks up at Noah, meeting his eyes. “I know I’m drunk right now but I want you to listen to this because this is very important for me that you know this. No matter what happens I will _always_ love you. If you convert to another religion, suddenly decide you want to join a circus or become a drag queen,” Noah grins at that, “knock up your girlfriend, fall in love with another boy, fall into drug addiction, murder somebody, or anything really. I will support you and love you. There’s nothing you can do to lose that. Screw the bible, reputation, and the congregation.” Noah has picked up on how serious Tom is now and gone still and earnest. The examples Tom makes all go against the beliefs and ideals Noah is brought up with, which is the point. “I want you to be happy. To grow up to do what you want to do, be free to be yourself. And to know I will never be ashamed or disappointed at you for following your heart.”

”I love you too, dad.” Noah gets up from the swing and hugs Tom tightly. “I’ve never doubted your support,” he adds before he sits back on the swing again.

”That’s good. Because I never had that,” Tom says and immediately regrets it.

”But granny and grandpa?”

”Shit. I shouldn’t have said that.” Tom bites on his thumbnail and squeezes his eyes shut for a second before he looks back at Noah. “There’s things you may not want to know about your parents.” Noah frowns in confusion. Tom takes another swig of whiskey. “Long story short. A few days before I turned eighteen I tried to take my own life. When I woke up in the hospital dad chewed me out for committing a major sin and mum yelled at me for embarrassing them and making them look bad in front of the congregation.”

Noah looks horrified. “Holy shit!”

”Yeah.”

”But _why_ did you do it?”

Tom chuckles. “Funny. None of them ever asked that... But that’s a story for when you’re an adult and don’t live at home anymore, okay?”

”Okay…” Noah stares out over the garden. The sun has set and it’s completely dark besides the porch light behind them. “Jesus Christ.”

”Yeah.”

”Can I have another cigarette?”

”Mhm.” Tom hands them over. He really shouldn’t be smoking and drinking with his seventeen year old son, but hey. He’d done worse at Noah’s age. Noah has probably done worse too. Here at least they’re at home and he can keep an eye on Noah’s consumption. When he gets the pack back he lights one for himself, takes a drink from the bottle and hands it over to Noah again.

”I still don’t think it’s right. Mom hitting you I mean,” Noah says after a while. “Cheating is wrong and I get why she’s angry. It makes me angry too. That’d you do that. I wish you could just, you know, be happy together and that’d be enough…” he falls quiet and stares at the glow of his cigarette for a beat or two. “But you’re not. None of you are happy. Me and Jess, we notice. We talk about it. We worry.” He pauses to breathe in smoke. He’s not looking at Tom while he talks and Tom stays quiet. Noah blows out the smoke through his nose and continues. “We hear you argue even if you try to hide it. We just didn’t know what you were arguing about… And then today…” Noah runs a hand through his hair. “Okay, so you’re a cheating bastard towards mom. But you’re a good father to us. And mom has every right to be angry. But to resort to violence?” He shakes his head in disgust. “I think you’re wrong dad. You don’t deserve it. I try thinking if I was in mum’s place and my girlfriend had cheated on me. I’d be mad. But that doesn’t give me the right to hit her and throw plates at her. It doesn’t matter if you’re a guy or a girl, no one has the right to hit you, okay? It’s just not right. Especially not if it wasn’t just a one time thing. I’m really upset by you saying you deserve it.” Noah looks really angry. It mirrors what they raised him to think―violence is only okay as self-defence or to defend somebody who can’t defend themselves.

Tom has trouble swallowing past the lump in his throat. First off is another heavy stone of guilt for burdening Jessi and Noah with worry. They shouldn’t have to worry about their parents. Both Grace and him has tried to hide their unhappiness from the children and obviously failed miserably. But mostly it’s Noah admitting to be angry at him and still not thinking he deserves it, despite hurting their mom. It makes his throat constrict and his eyes sting. He’s proud of Noah for taking that stance, because that’s his own view concerning others. He just can’t apply it to himself. He’s a lying, cheating lowlife. A filthy faggot who can’t keep himself on God’s path. He has to fight to keep his depression at bay, walls and shields crumbling. He turns his head and meets his son’s eyes again. Swallowing thickly. He’s so ashamed of his voice cracking a little when he speaks. 

“But what am I supposed to do then? I can’t stop her when she gets like that. I don’t want to involve the police. And who would believe me? I’m much taller and stronger than her. All she needs to say is that _she_ protected herself and everyone would buy it. What else is there? Divorce? Custody battles? Only time I brought up divorce she threatened to make sure I’d never see you two again and without you I’ve got nothing. If they dig into my clandestine affairs I _will_ lose custody. She has good reason to hold a grudge against me. I can’t…” Tom takes a deep steadying breath. “It’s better this way. You’ll live at home, what? One or two years before you go to college. Her anger outbreaks doesn’t come _that_ often and they’re nothing worse than I had to take on the ice. I can take it. Then when you and Jessi both have left the nest we’ll see what happens. Shit. I shouldn’t be talking about this with you.” 

Noah’s eyes are glossy in the darkness. He’s not unaffected by his father’s pain. “I just wish you could be happy again. I haven’t seen a smile that reached your eyes since you were injured and unable to play.”

Tom wonders if Noah would be as sympathetic if he knew his dad was in love with a young man only four years his senior…


	3. The second meeting - part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The year is 2009. Three months earlier Tom met Sam. A month ago he discovered Sam had programmed in his number into Tom's phone. Tom is gearing up to make a call...
> 
>  **[Sam's POV of this chapter can now be found in "The Sexual Education of Sam Winchester"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3226415/chapters/9286845)**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Underage sex/big age difference, Bottom!Sam

## December 2009

He’s been staring at the phone for an hour. Heart beating erratically. It was supposed to be a one time thing. It had taken him the better part of two months to discover that Sam had programmed in his number into his phone. It had to be him. “ _Kid_ ” was the name the strange number was programmed under. It _couldn’t_ be anyone else. His mouth is dry. If Sam wants to see him again… If he makes this call and sets it up he’ll risk jail time. He won’t have any excuses, not like the first time. The price of getting caught is a high one. Losing his wife and children, going to jail for statutory rape, ruining his career and his family’s reputation, _hurting_ his children (which is the biggest reason to hold him back). 

And yet… He’d been missing the boy as if he’d gotten a part of his heart teared straight out. He had been thoroughly infatuated with the boy. He told himself it was just about sex, knowing it to be a lie. He didn’t get butterflies in his belly from good sex, didn’t find himself smiling at odd moments just because he came to think of something the guy said if it was just sex. He had a crush that wouldn’t let itself go away easily.

There are times when Tom doubts that the church in his community are right about God. He’s not sure if he really believe God would automatically doom every homosexual to hell. Tom has never been able to control who he was attracted to. His libido and heart both override logic and sense. No matter how much he prayed and tried to force himself to love women as he does men, he couldn’t. He finds it hard to believe God would just choose people randomly to be born with this disease and expect them to be celibate for all their life. So he’d begun to nurture the hope that maybe he wasn’t a lost soul. God is good and forgiving and maybe he could be saved? (Or maybe he was just making excuses for himself.) Until he met Sam. There was no excuses for not only to desire a minor, but to _act_ upon that desire―it was unforgivable. The church had been right about him all along. When his day to be judged would come he would accept his punishment. He refused to regret their night together. It would be disrespectful towards Sam if nothing else. The responsibility to stop it before it happened had been his and no one elses. He was the adult, and he had succumbed to the temptation faster than the snake could say “apple”. Sam’s willingness was a moot point.

Maybe his mind magnified the memory of the kid into something it wasn’t? An adult and a child should not connect on the level he had felt them do. Maybe if they met one more time he’d see that it was just the sexual fantasy their encounter represented that made him think of the boy all the time, and it would wear off at second meeting? ”Dear Father, forgive me for what I’m about to do,” he mumbles with closed eyes, sending a prayer to the God he was about to turn away from. He opens his eyes and hits dial.

It rings three times before somebody picks up. Tom almost loses his nerve and hangs up while he’s waiting, but then, “Hi. Sam speaking.” The sound of Sam’s voice sends a jolt of nervous excitement through him. There’s the sound of other people, young people, in the background. He can hear both male and female voices.

”I’m really overstepping my bounds by making this call, aint I, demon child?” Tom says softly while smiling nervously. He feels his heart thumping rapidly in his ribcage.

There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other side of the line. “No! I mean, no. Not at all. Hold on. Gimme a sec. I just…” There’s some scraping as Sam puts his hand over the microphone and then Tom can overhear muted conversation. “ _Guys, I’ve been waiting for this call. I gotta take this. Don’t disturb me, alright_?” His companions agrees, then there’s footsteps, a door opening and closing, bedsprings dipping under weight, some shuffling and Sam is back. “Hey, Tom,” he says softly. “I’ didn’t think you were going to call me…” his voice is shy, careful.

”It took me some time to find your number, kid,” Tom says with a rueful timbre to his voice. His voice tilts upward hopefully with a smile as he asks “You’ve been waiting for me to call?”

”Would you think me a total loser if I say yes? I mean. I get it. I do. You _can’t_. I understand that. But I kinda hoped you would anyway. Pathetic, right?”

Tom is grinning from ear to ear, biting his thumbnail, cheeks heating up. “Nu-uh. I called, didn’t I?”

Sam’s chuckle thrills Tom’s senses. ”Yeah…” his voice is warm and soft, no longer with that careful edge. “Can I see you again?”

And that was the point of the call. To meet up. To see if he’d just magnified the memory and somehow wouldn’t feel the same if they met again. He can tell just by this phone call that the infatuation is anything but a flawed memory. Just hearing Sam’s voice fills him with bubbles of happiness. Meeting up will only feed that fire. That in itself is a very sensible reason not to. Somehow he hadn’t anticipated Sam to be this interested. He’d thought he’d have to talk the boy into it. The list of reasons not to go through with it is a mile long. There is only one reason to do it―because he wants to.

Sam mistakes his pause for reluctance―rather than the guilt trip about digging himself in deeper it is―and sets out to convince Tom. “Look. We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. I just want to see you, you know? I mean, I’m not saying no if you wanna have your way with me,” that sentence is said with suggestive purring humour, before he goes back to sounding ernest. “But we can just talk. I’ve been thinking about you. A lot, actually. And I dunno. Just... _Please_?”

Tom can’t hold back a laugh. Sam is absolutely shameless. Both brave enough to appear vulnerable and at the same time ruthlessly manipulative. It was the same routine he’d pulled when they met in the bar. Stroking Tom’s ego by revealing his own desire, dangling promise of carnal sin but promises to respect rejection while pleading for at least a tiny scrap of what he wants. Tom doesn’t doubt the sincerity in what Sam is saying. Yet he is certain the boy know exactly what he is doing, going for gold. As innocent as a puppy yet as sly and crafty as the snake in Eden. The combination is absolute kryptonite to Tom’s resolve. “Of course I want to see you, kid. I’ve been thinking of you too,” he admits, the smile firmly in place. “We’re playing the Angels tonight so I’ll be in twin towns. That’s where you live, right?”

”Yeah, it is.”

”I don’t know how much time I’ll will have. And perhaps it would be for the best if we did actually just talk this time if you’re okay with that?”

”Yeah. Yeah, of course!” Sam sounds really happy about the outlook. “Can we meet before the game?”

”Sure we can. I can be there in maybe two hours depending on traffic. Then I’ll have maybe 45 minutes to an hour before I got to get ready. Is it enough for you?”

”It’s fine. We can meet on the parking lot by my school,” Sam says and gives him an address. Tom programs it into his sat nav straight away, buzzing with anticipation.

”Alright, you sweet little fiend. I’ll give you a call when I’m getting close. How much of a heads up do you need?”

The smile carries strongly in Sam’s voice, bringing memories of those killer dimples. “Fifteen, twenty minutes perhaps?”

Tom agrees to call him 20 minutes prior to arrival and they say a goodbye made awkward due to none of them really wanting to hang up. Afterwards Tom hides his face in his hands and giggles, feeling how warm his cheeks are. “Shit, I’m such a goner,” he grins to himself. His stomach, normally crawling full of worms of anxiety, is now filled with nervous butterflies flitting with anticipation. He should be ashamed and guilty right now but he isn’t. Sam _wanted_ to see him again and had been thinking about him. ‘ _A lot, actually_ ’. Those were his words. How long was it since he felt this way? Years. Sure, he got easily attached and infatuated, but unless the feeling was fueled by the guy’s presence it faded quickly too. This lingering ache of separation that lasted for months and could reignite joy with a five minute phone call… He hadn’t had that since Andreas, the German guy he dated on and off between the age of 19 to 22.

Briefly he considers changing his clothes into something more fashionable to look better for his meeting with Sam. He decides against it, but just barely. It’ll have to do. Grey tee, light grey zip-up hoodie, loose fitting navy gym pants, and a leather jacket. He tells himself he looks fine and doesn’t have to fret as if he’s going to pick up his prom date. It’s pre-game. Sam will understand just fine why he isn’t spiffed up. He hurriedly packs his car and gets on his way, playing David Bowie and singing along.

* * *

Sam is already there when Tom turns into the empty parking lot. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest and one knee bent, foot hitched up against the bricks behind him. He’s wearing a zip up hoodie too, a red one, under an open letterman jacket, paired with black Adidas pants. He follows the car with his eyes as it approaches. Despite the nonchalant posture he looks a bit tense and nervous. And at the same time he shows signs of anticipation. 

Tom's heart speeds up at the sight of him. What if he thinks this is a mistake when he sees Tom? What if he has changed his mind? He didn’t say anything about it when they spoke briefly 20 minutes ago, but who knows? It would be for the best of course, but Tom really doesn’t want him to change his mind now. He parks the car two meters from where Sam is waiting and gets out. For a tense moment all they do is stare at each other. "Shit. Kid, you're even more gorgeous than I remember. Didn’t think that was possible," Tom says, breaking the silence. 

The tense nervousness bleeds away from Sam’s posture and a mischievous lopsided smile blooms on his face. It would have been a smirk if not his eyes radiated such happiness. Tom’s own face mirrors the expression of its own accord which seems to be the sign Sam was waiting for. He kicks himself off the wall and in two brisk strides he's up close and cupping Tom’s cheeks with cold fingers. He tilts his head and leans in, licking his parted lips. He halts his movement just for a beat, eyes flicking to Tom’s in question. But Tom is already tugging him in, winding his arms around him inside the letterman jacket and pressing their chests together. And then they're kissing like they're starving for it. 

Sam’s lips are cold and he tastes faintly of gum, the inside of his mouth is hot and inviting. He welcomes the intrusion of Tom's hungry tongue needily, letting Tom guide and control. Tom is soaring and falling all at once. For a moment he forgets that this is sin. This is the very epitome of depravity, the ultimate proof of how ugly and corrupt he really is. But if there was ever a time he really wanted to praise the Lord it was now. When he held the pinnacle of God’s creation in his arms, drinking in his taste and revelling in the closeness. The ever present guilt and shame pushed to the back by joy and relief.

Sam changes his grip on him, digging his fingers into his back, clinging. Making small whiny noises into the kiss, each sound sending jolts of electricity through Tom’s body. For a moment their age difference is insignificant and all the reasons why they shouldn’t do this is forgotten. But then Tom’s dick starts to get hard and he pushes his crotch forward to find Sam in a similar state and reality comes crashing back. Tom breaks the kiss but doesn’t let go of Sam who makes a petulant noise of protest. "We should get in the car before we're seen. You know somewhere we can park without being disturbed?" 

The brief flash of annoyance on Sam's face goes away as Tom makes it clear he doesn’t want to stop. “Yeah. Sure. There’s a look out spot by the lake that nobody uses during the winter.”

”Then lets go.”

* * *

The ‘just talk’ plan was shot to pieces at first encounter. That doesn’t mean Tom isn’t going to try to get back on track while they’re driving to a spot where he can kiss the boy with less risk of getting caught. Sam let him take his hand and seem content with letting Tom hold it and stroke the back of it with his thumb while he’s driving. They keep looking at each other, smiling. It’s also awkwardly tense. “So how’s school?” 

Sam rolls his head to the side against the backrest, looking at him, eyes narrowing into something full of teasing amusement and lips curling into a faint smirk. “Straight A’s all the way. Don’t think I could do worse than that even if I tried,” he says with arrogant confidence.

”You planning to go to college?”

Sam drops the bluster some. “Nah. I play hockey in Free Will’s youth division. Gonna play professionally like Dean when I’m old enough. I’m not a natural like him but it’ll do. Usta want to become a lawyer when I was younger. Like, go to Stanford an’ stuff. But after dad died I figured what I really had wanted was to get away from him. And I dunno. Hockey is as good a profession as any. Gabe, our coach, kinda adopted me an’ Dean like a wacky uncle or something a couple of years ago so I guess it makes it the family business?”

Tom chuckles. “I used to have posters of ‘The Trickster’ on my wall for motivation when I was young. He was one of a kind. Skating like it was nobody’s business, inventive like you wouldn’t believe, and making headlines with all his antics off the ice. Is he as cool in reality as he seems?”

Sam grins at him. “I guess. He’s always pulling pranks and stuff. But he’s really sharp, you know? And he cares. He hides it behind jokes ‘n stuff but he does things… I dunno. When others look the other way he helps instead. He’s the one who got Dean to play hockey to begin with…” Sam trails off and looks out of the window, slightly uncomfortable. Tom guesses he doesn’t want Tom to ask what other people look away from or why Milton would feel the need to ‘adopt’ the boys to begin with. Especially knowing Sam is haunted by nightmares and let slip he wanted to get away from his dad. Tom is itching to know of course, but being one carrying so many secrets he knows to respect others’ secrets too.

”I regret not going to college,” he says instead.

Sam’s head snap around to focus at Tom. He raises a sceptical eyebrow. “Are you gonna give a speech about the importance of education now?” he says defensively.

Tom laughs and squeezes his hand. “Not even close, kid. No. I have just begun to fret about the future, that’s all. When I started playing hockey professionally I didn’t worry about what would happen when I couldn’t play anymore. Now though? If I’m lucky I get to play until I’m what? 40? 42? And after that I’ll be chained to suburbia and a lifestyle I don’t like and I don’t know what I’m going to do then.” The familiar worms of anxiety crawl in his belly while talking about it. Grace had started pressure him about _not_ getting a job once he retired to make up for how much he is away from home now. The thought makes him feel desperate and he hopes he can cling to his freedom as long as possible. He smiles widely and shrugs like it’s not a big thing.

Sam’s expression has shifted into sympathy laced with concerned understanding. He squeezes Tom’s hand. Sam’s a good listener. Tom thinks he sees right through him, unfooled by the smile Tom puts on. But before Sam can say anything Tom speaks up again. "Is this where we need to turn?" 

"Yeah. You’ll see when we're there. Can’t miss it." 

Tom turns the car onto a forest road covered in snow. There’s a few tire tracks but they have been snowed over, showing how rarely this road is used. A minute later the road comes to an end on a ledge overlooking the frozen lake. It’s breathtakingly beautiful. ”Wow. This must be the number one make out spot during summer," he says as he parks the car and kills the engine. 

”It is." Sam turns his body towards him, tilts his head to the side so his bangs falls over one eye, and looks at him from under his lashes. “Wanna take advantage of that?" he says seductively with a small lopsided smirk. Again, it’s a practised move that makes him look both innocent and devilish at the same time. Tom is sure it must make girls throw themselves at him because it works. 

Tom unbuckles his seatbelt and turns towards Sam, heart speeding up in anticipation. He drapes one arm over the backrest of Sam’s seat and reaches out to stroke his cheek. His skin is so soft under the rough pads of Tom's fingers. He wonders if Sam needs to shave yet. Maybe. But probably not every day. Somehow that thought is wickedly arousing. That someone so young and unspoiled would let Tom touch him. Sam could have anyone. Why he’s here with Tom is a mystery. He’s only two years older than Tom's daughter. Sure, he could pass for 18 or 19 when he plays up his smooth confidence. If he still had looked like an actual child Tom wouldn’t have been interested. Even he wasn't _that_ depraved. Boys who still had the body of a child did nothing to stir his libido. Not until they developed into young men. But it was semantics because the _knowledge_ that Sam was still just a kid stirred dark urges in Tom. The high school letterman jacket only served to underline Sam's youth. For a crazy moment Tom wonders if Sam had chosen to wear it for that very reason. But that's absurd. Sam wouldn’t think of _that_ to manipulate him, would he?

Tom strokes the hair out of Sam’s face and runs his fingers through it. It’s silky smooth and longer than last time. Maybe 3 or 4 centimeters longer. He could spend hours carding through that hair. He scrapes his nails against Sam’s scalp, watching the boy shiver. "I bet you never had a bad hair day in your life," he says as the hair falls back into place. 

Sam huffs in amusement and his cheeks colours faintly. "You'd lose that bet," he says, smiling. 

"Not a chance." As much as he wants to kiss the boy he also wants to touch and drink in his beauty. Sam lets him take his time, watching him while he trails his fingers over his face in soft reverence. Goosebumps form on Sam's neck and his breath becomes more shallow. His eyes... they are extraordinary. Tom remembers from last time that they shifted colour. They'd been hazel, shifting to brown and green. Now they were almost amber in the sunlight. Tom isn’t certain if it's a mood thing or if the shift is due to lighting. He wishes he could get to know the boy well enough to find out. Sam's pupils dilate more with every touch and when Tom rubs his thumb over his lower lip his breath stutters and he swallows thickly.

Tom leans in slowly, set on kissing the kid he desires so badly but there’s a thought that nags at him, about why Sam is here. There’s no doubt in his mind that the kid is a victim of abuse. The nightmares, the high pain threshold, the wicked and unhealthy streak in him that led him to approach Tom in the first place―it all screams trauma. While that is troubling and heartbreaking it’s not what makes Tom halt. He thinks of how extremely he’d been affected by the sexual abuse he’d submitted himself to as a teeneger and how much the rape had affected his ability to have something akin to a healthy (as much as his perverted attraction to men could be called ‘ _healthy_ ’) sex life. If _that_ was what was behind Sam’s attraction for himself he could not bring himself to do it. He didn’t want to further such a bright spirit’s road into destruction. The thought of corrupting the kid was one thing, the thought of destroying him something completely else. He has to know. “Sam. I need you to be a 100% honest with me now. I’m sorry to have to ask such sensitive question, but I’ve got to know… were you ever sexually abused or raped?”

Sam tensed up as soon Tom asks for honesty, but relaxes visibly at the question which is an answer in itself. There’s no flitting gaze, no avoidance or shutting down defensively. Tom breathes out in relief even before the word “No” is out of Sam’s mouth. Whatever abuse Sam is a victim of it’s verbal or physical in a way Tom would never be in risk of repeating. It doesn’t make this any less wrong but it’s enough for Tom to drop his reservations and lean in the last few centimeters and kiss those sweet pink lips full of promise. Sam opens up and lets him in and Tom’s insides are going haywire.

He loves kissing. It’s so intimate. And a kiss told so much about your partner and your compability. A good kiss would light both body and mind on fire, melding you together to one and wash away all fears and worries of everyday life. A kiss told you so much about a person sexually too. Did they try to battle for dominance? Were they shy or insecure? Sloppy and stiff? Sam was an unfairly good kisser―remarkably good considering his age―he’d hold his own compared to anyone. He was accommodative, letting Tom take the lead, but without being passive. His sweet tasting kisses were explorative and supple. He’d break it off to suck on Tom’s lip and nip lightly, or just shy of painful, stimulating every sensitive nerve ending. He’d lick into the mouth to run his tongue along places often forgotten (just like Tom did), like the roof of the mouth, the backside of the teeth or the inside of the lips.

Their kisses becomes increasingly forceful and demanding as they go on. Tom feels drunk and overjoyed. He’s filled with desire and butterflies. He is painfully hard and grateful he’s not wearing constricting jeans. Sam breaks the kiss, both of them panting harshly like they’d done so much more than just kissing. Sam almost looks angry with how intense his gaze is, eyes wide and brows drawn down. Suddenly he kicks his trainers off and heaves himself over to straddle Tom with a determined hiss. (not an easy feat with his height.) “I want you inside of me,” he says and bends down to kiss Tom again. The movement makes his spine bump against the car horn in the middle of the steering wheel and both of them jumps in startlement at the sudden sound, then promptly burst out in a fit of nervous laughter.

Tom adjusts the seat backwards to give them more space and rucks up Sam’s shirts to wrap his arms around him, stroking the soft skin of his back. “As much as I want that too, my sweet demon child, there’s not enough time to work you open,” he says with a regretful smile.

Sam’s eyes get a sly glint and a wicked smirk grows on his lips. He bends down to whisper in Tom’s ear at the same time as he reaches around his back to guide Tom’s hands down to his ass. “Good thing you gave me two hours to prep then, huh?”

Tom’s breath catches in his throat when he feels the outline of a plug through the fabric of Sam’s pants. “Dear Jesus Christ! Are you trying to kill me, kid?”

Sam chuckles darkly. “Nu-uh. Then I would have used a gun, stupid,” he says. He’s already digging his hands into Tom’s pants, gripping his cock in both hands and stroking it, turning Tom’s giddy laugh into a strangled sound.

” _Shit._ You devious imp. You were never going to ‘just talk’, were you?” Tom scolds breathlessly.

”We are talking. I’m pleading my case,” Sam says, grinning and kissing Tom’s neck.

"You presumptuous little _brat_. And what a convincing case you make," he answers through gritted teeth, sliding his hands inside Sam's pants to push and pull gently on the plug. The resistance paired with Sam's small little whiny noises makes his head spin and his heart hammer against his ribcage. He wants to be inside him _right now_ as much as he wants to take his time and pick this wondrous boy apart piece by piece. But Sam is already digging up lube and condoms from his jacket pocket and Tom can’t hold back a laugh. It comes from his core, and pop like bubbles of happiness and carefree joy when it surfaces. "You cheeky child of Lucifer. You’re just going to take what you want and won't accept a no for an an answer, will you?"

Not until Sam makes a choking sound, chortles, and falls onto his chest in a pile of giggles does Tom remember that Sam keeps a picture of Lucifer Morningstar the hockey player in his wallet, claiming that they're friends and that it's ‘complicated’. By Sam's reaction when they spoke about it Tom's sure the boy harbours a major crush on the man. He sucks a possessive mark on Sam's neck (he has no right to, but does it anyway) and whispers hoarsely "What’s the devil going to say when I steal you away from him?" 

For some reason or another that seems to jolt Sam back on track with even more determination. He kisses Tom fiercely while manoeuvring awkwardly in the tight space to get his pants off while Tom's hands roam up and down his body greedily. 

Tom folds the back of his seat back as far as it will go to give them more space. Sam manages to get his pants off so they're hanging off from one leg. Tom then carefully removes the plug from Sam’s resisting hole while Sam pants into his shoulder, canting his hips to make it easier and rubbing Tom's cockhead between them. The plug comes free and Sam whine at the loss. "Fill me up, Tom. Make me yours. I want you inside of me," Sam begs breathily. 

Tom is distracted by the plug in his hand. A big crystal clear thing that would have offered a tempting view sitting in place and definitely has stretched Sam enough to accommodate for Tom's size. He can’t wrap his head around that Sam did this. For _him._ It’s heady. Dizzying. Surreal. As is the words ‘ _Make me yours._ ’

Sam’s not waiting for him to catch up though. He’s rolling the condom over Tom’s cock and lubing him up and before Tom is clued in on how fast things are going Sam is lowering himself down over him. “ _Shit, Shit, Shit!_ Take it easy, kid. You’re going to hurt yourself," he protests and grabs a tight hold of Sam’s slim hips to stop him from going further. It takes every ounce of restraint he has with the _tight_ heat pressing in on all sides, making it hard to breathe or think. It’s the curse of having a huge cock. He’s doomed to hurt his partners whether he wants to or not (he doesn’t want to). He always have to be in partial control so he doesn't go in too deep or too fast. Sometimes he has hooked up with guys with a size kink but while they often were able to take all of him with no problem, more often than not they were preoccupied with worshipping his cock and made him feel like he’s an insignificant appendix to it. That somehow made him feel dirty and used as he craved intimacy more than anything else. 

Sam hisses in frustration, baring his teeth, and sits up as far as the car roof will allow him to. “I can take it,” he says very decisively. When Tom doesn’t let go he crosses his arms and punches down and out inside Tom’s arms. It very effectively dislodges Tom’s grip on his hip and slams one of Tom’s hand painfully into the car door. He doesn’t really feel the pain of it though because Sam sinks down the rest of the way until he’s got Tom’s cock fully sheathed inside of him and Tom is practically gone with the bliss of it, struggling to catch his breath.

Sam folds back down, burying his head in the crook of Tom’s neck, supporting himself with a firm grip on the headrest of the seat. Tom’s arms wind around him inside of his shirt, the plug dropped and forgotten. He presses Sam closer, breathing in his scent and revelling in the slim, firm body with it’s baby soft skin―all wiry muscles―underneath his hands. Tom kisses every patch of skin available to him, neck, cheek, forehead. Tongue darting out ever so often to taste. He murmurs words of adoration without conscious thought, not quite sure what he’s saying more than it’s the absolute truth.

Sam starts moving and it’s really hard to keep from coming. It’s embarrassing how close he is so fast, just due to how desirable he finds the kid to be. No matter how much he’ll try to deny it to himself later, it turns him on even more knowing how big a sin he’s committing. It’s blatant selfish disregard for everything he’s brought up to believe to be true and right, and he’s rapaciously giving himself over to lust, worshipping Sam like a golden calf. Sam’s own greed and willingness paired with the tender affection he feels for the boy allows him to do so without the crushing weight of guilt keeping his fire in check.

Sam picks up speed and leans up to kiss Tom between harsh panted breaths and sounds of pleasure. Tom grabs his ass and starts thrusting too. It’s a tight fit, both around his cock and in the car. Even with the seat pulled back and laid down as far as it would go it _can’t_ be comfortable for Sam, even if you’d never be able to tell from the heated look of him. He’s absolutely gorgeous like this, cheeks flushed, sweat starting to glue his hair to his forehead and eyes glazed by desire. A slight change in position and Sam cries out, throwing his head back. He keens Tom’s name, his rhythm faltering, which encourages Tom to grip his hips tighter and keep hitting that spot until Sam’s breath catches and he shoots his load in thick stripes over Tom’s leather jacket. Tom watches in awe as the boy’s jaw goes slack and his eyes fall shut, how he shudders and twitches with every wave of his orgasm. Alas, with how Sam constricts around Tom’s cock, he follows all too quickly.

When Tom reaches lucidity again Sam is holding himself up on trembling arms to keep from laying down in the mess he’s made on Tom’s jacket. He’s watching Tom with an intense expression, looking almost stricken. Tom can’t read it’s meaning. He can however clean up the mess. He reaches out to the kitchen roll he keeps between the front seats ( _you_ try to have children in a car without it), grabs a piece of paper and quickly drying himself off, throwing the paper on the floor. Sam falls down on his chest as soon as he’s done that.

Tom holds him tenderly, protectively, and strokes his sweat matted hair, keeping him tucked in under his chin. His chest feels warmed from the inside, both constricted by emotions and expanded by too much air all at once. “You’re so beautiful, kid. You deserve so much better than this. I want to take my time with you like you’re worth.” He buries his nose in Sam’s hair. “I haven’t been able to take my mind off you, kid. You’ve haunted my dreams, both the sleeping and the wakeful ones.” He feels Sam smile and crawl up a bit to rest his nose against the pulse on Tom’s throat. Tom caresses his jawline and up, feeling the dimple that so thoroughly tears down any defense he might try to build up against the kid. “You have no idea how much you affect me, kid. But you really shouldn’t be here with me. I’m not good for you.”

Sam’s smile fades and he swallows thickly. “I’ve missed you,” he says quietly.

Such a simple confession but the impact is devastating, making Tom jubilantly happy and strangely sad at the same time. He chuckles and lifts the plug from where it has lain forgotten on the passenger seat. “Yes I can tell,” he says, amused. “You’re one cheeky little bugger, you know that?”

Sam’s smile is back in place, Tom can feel it spread into a grin. “I… umm..” Sam’s cheeks are getting warmer, giving away a rising blush. “I bought it on the off-chance that’d you’d call.”

Tom groans and he hugs Sam closer, his softening dick gives a valiant twitch. “Shit.”

Sam sniggers darkly at Tom’s reaction to the admission. 

”I don’t deserve you.”

”Yeah well, _I_ deserve you,” Sam states. Of course he does. He deserve to get anything he wants. He just shouldn’t want a man twice his age. “You’re the only one I’ve let do this to me.”

”What? Top?”

”Yeah…”

Another admission that wrecks havoc with Tom’s feelings and libido. Not only had he been they boy’s first, he’s his _only_. He knows Sam enjoyed it the last time. It would be a fair assumption that Sam would take that positive experience with him and implement it on his regular sex life. That he hadn’t is dizzyingly. During their talks last time he’d gotten to know enough about Sam’s relationship with Brady to know Sam could get what he wanted whenever he wanted. There’s no way Tom could even have dreamed that Sam would ‘save himself’ for him when they most likely never would meet again. That thought makes Tom think it’s only fair to offer something equally great in scale. He grins broadly and bites his thumbnail while he thinks of it. His silence makes Sam lever himself up to watch his face. Tom knows he’s blushing, he can feel it. It’s both from the delighted butterflies in his stomach and the sickening anxiety of what the answer will be. “You… You wanna top?” 

”No.” Sam’s answer comes without hesitation.

He can’t _tell_ Sam how much the offer really means, and what kind of sacrifice it is. That would put pressure on him Tom doesn’t want him to carry. Not with how empathic Sam proved himself to be. He might hold back due to guilt or sympathy. Tom tries his best to hide the turmoil within, because he needs to make sure Sam isn’t wavering in this. “You sure about that, kid?”

Sam is looking down on him with frightening intensity, gaze shifting from eye to eye and Tom wonders if he can see right through him. Especially when Sam leans forward and says “ _Yes_ ,” with great emphasis. He almost seems upset about being asked a second time.

Either that or Tom’s reluctance is utterly transparent to him. To hide his relief he cups Sam’s cheek and drags him down for a slow heartfelt kiss, trying to convey all he’s feeling for the kid with it. Sam breaks it after a minute or eternity. “I want to sleep with you tonight,” he says against Tom’s lips.

”That may be hard. I’m sharing hotel room with a teammate tonight.”

Sam swallows thickly, then after a beat, “ _Please_?”

And truly, there’s nothing more Tom wants in this world than to fall asleep with Sam in his arms. “I’ll make it happen, kid.”

* * *


	4. Snake in Eden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom struggles with adjusting to his new life. He finds a new challenge in his pool and an unexpected ally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:**  
>  \- Mentions of domestic abuse  
> \- Depression  
> \- Misuse of over the counter drugs (painkillers)
> 
>  **Notes:**  
>  Any other warnings or tags needed, tell me, okay?  
> Okay. I posted this without preview. Any glaring faults - gimme a kick in the ass and point them out. Now I need to sleep.

## spring 2014

He doesn’t deserve easy. He had his fun and now life is over. Now it’s all put on the grinning mask, speaking empty words and listen to the echo as they bounce around his head, meaning absolutely nothing. He smiles and nods a greeting from afar to the newest guests to arrive to their barbecue party. He turns back to the grill and flips the patties, hoping to discourage them from coming to talk to him. They’ll come anyway of course. Luckily his wife is the perfect hostess and wanders from guest to guest, making them feel welcome. Having his back to the party puts him facing the pool where Jessi and Noah are lounging with their friends. He didn’t deserve easy and he certainly didn’t _get_ easy. A pool full of beautiful young boys (and girls) in the age of 17 to 19. How much more depraved could you get? Lusting over his childrens’ friends was _not_ something he had anticipated while changing diapers and blowing raspberries on soft round baby bellies. Yet here he was watching all that tanned skin, lean bodies and supple muscles either stretched out on sun loungers or swimming in the pool.

It was disgusting really. Most of these kids he had seen grow up. They’d just been kids, then after his “retirement”, he’d suddenly noticed that they weren’t anymore. Well, they _were_. But with the bodies of young adults he suddenly _saw_ them. They registered on his sexual radar. He hated that. Hated it! There were a few new faces in the youth crowd. He didn’t know who was friends with who of his kids since Jessi and Noah were so close and often hung out together―the benefit of being close in age. Not that it mattered. There were two new girls, one of which was flirting relentlessly with Noah. His son showed no inclination of returning the interest.

Then there was a boy who stood out like a crow in a group of white doves. He was swimming laps in their pool, unlike his peers who were horsing around. That wasn’t the only thing that made him different. He had tattooes. A sleeve that went all the way down to his hand, up, covering his shoulder blade, shoulder, and one bicep, like gladiator armour. Tom couldn’t see the design from here. In addition to that his black hair had a bright streak of blue in it.

“If I were you I’d watch him like a hawk too.” Tom startles guiltily turns to look at the speaker. John, the man in the latest couple to arrive, is looking past Tom’s shoulder at the boy swimming laps. Had he been watching him like a hawk? Probably. Luckily John didn’t know _why_. “I’m surprised you let that one in.” 

Tom smiles politely. “Any friend of Jessi and Noah is welcome in our house,” he says, bringing John’s attention back to him.

“You should reconsider that. He might be a bad influence. Probably does drugs and worships Satan.”

“In that case I’d like to think my kids will have a good influence on him instead.”

John laughs. “Lets hope so. You always did have a penchant for protecting the weak and feeble minded. One day it’ll come back to bite you in the ass.”

 _Do I?_ John and Tom went to school together. John used to be rebellious back then, a far cry from the strict man he’d grown up to be. John had a tendency to say things about Tom that didn’t correspond with his view of himself. “It’s the christian thing to do. Who is that kid anyway?” 

"Justin Robinson. Tim and Margaret's son. They moved back here last month after he'd gotten in some trouble. Said they hoped they could get the boy back on the straight and narrow with the help of the congregation."

"What did he do?"

John shrugs and takes a swig of his beer. "They didn’t say. But look at him. Something is clearly wrong with him. Wonder why God punish them with a son like that? They’re good, godfearing people."

Tom turns back towards the grill with a noncommittal grunt. _They probably created the problem themselves by refusing to view their son as an individual and trying to punish the spirit out of him._ He takes the burgers from the grill and puts on a new load of patties. He throws a surreptitious glance at John and finds him looking, no longer at the wayward boy, but at the girls in their skimpy bikinis. Tom is not the only one struggling with sinful thoughts apparently. 

"It’s a disgrace." Both Tom and John turn their heads to look at the new speaker coming to join them. It’s Paul, the next door neighbour. 

"What is?" John asks. 

"How they are dressed. Like whores of Babylon. Tempting respectable boys into sin."

"Or maybe it's a disgrace that you sexualise kids and then try to pin your depravity on the children," Tom says, scowling. "They bear no guilt in this, Paul."

"I'm just saying that they should cover up and wear more modest garments."

"You don’t like it, don't look. I'm not going to accept you coming to my home and calling my daughter a whore of Babylon because she is wearing a bikini _by the pool_ on one of the hottest days of the year so far." Paul opens his mouth as if to say something but Tom interrupts him with a gesture. "No. I'm not going to stand for it, Paul. You prance around in the smallest damned speedos I've seen daily while working in your yard. We are not Shia Muslims. Our women deserve the same respect and rights as us. So if you consider that a perversion,” he gestures at the youths by the pool, "then maybe you should take a good look at yourself instead.“ 

John hides a smile behind his hand, and Paul's lips draw into a thin line. ”You have changed Tom. Where were you last Sunday? Didn't see you at church."

Tom wants to punch the guy. He always did. Paul, thin and reedy, with his round wire frame glasses, was always the first to accuse others of sin. The Spanish inquisition personified. Tom gives him a close lipped but polite smile. "I was at home. Too much pain in my knee to walk." It’s a lie. "So I took painkillers and went to bed." Almost true. He’d told his family his knee was bothering him and he'd taken painkillers. They killed the pain alright, but it had been internal turmoil rather than physical pain bothering him. "I figured it would be bad manner to show up at church jacked up on painkillers. I show my devotion to god at a daily basis, not merely an hour on Sundays." 

"I'm sorry about your knee, Tom,” John says before Paul can get another chance at picking a fight. "You had so much more to give."

Tom smiles and sighs. “Thank you. But you know how it goes, the Lord giveth..." he says tiredly, smile firmly in place. 

“...and the Lord taketh away. Yeah, I know," John finishes for him with a sympathetic smile of his own. 

Paul, sensing he has no allies, excuses himself to go talk to someone else. 

John holds out his beer bottle in a silent invitation to toast, so Tom takes his bottle from the side table of the grill and clink it with John's bottle before taking a swig. It’s been left out in the sun too long and is next to tepid. It’s disgusting but Tom drinks it nevertheless. He's not sure if the toast is a gesture of sympathy for Tom’s crashed career or a conspiratorial gestures of success at driving Paul away. Possibly both. John had been great at baseball in high school and gotten himself a scholarship for college for that talent. One year into his studies he had busted his throwing arm, killing any chance of continuing his sports career. He could still study, his family had money, but he knew how bad it felt losing the ability to pursue something you loved. Tom would probably like John a whole lot more if it wasn’t for his own lies and God hovering like a wall between them.

For a while they just stand in silence while Tom flips the patties. Both of them watching the kids, probably for the same reasons. Better up, John had given Tom the perfect excuse for tracking Justin with his eyes. John on the other hand keeps his eyes peeled on the girls. It should make Tom more uncomfortable than it does that his daughter is included in the group John is lusting for. It doesn’t. Not as long as the man doesn’t act on it. John breaks the silence and gestures at a faded bruise on Tom's jaw. "You were in a fight?"

"Nah. Grace got mad and roughed me up a bit," he says with a big grin on his face as if it is a joke. Immediately worms of anxiety twists in his stomach. There is a slight tendril of fear gripping his heart, making it beat faster. His eyes quickly dart around to see if his wife is close enough to overhear. He can't see her. He shouldn't have said it. It was his own fault anyway. He'd been slightly tipsy and tried to cuddle up to her when they went to bed, wanting to hold her. She had elbowed him in the face. He should have known he wasn't allowed to touch her unless someone saw. But they’d been at a party together that night and she'd been so warm and loving he'd believed he was out of the cold. 

John laughs. “Oh yeah? What did you do to deserve it?" he asks with a little headshake and skeptically raised eyebrows, clearly not believing it. "No but seriously, what happened?"

What lies had he used already? What would match up with the damage? "I was reaching for something on the top shelf in the garage and stupidly thought I could get it without a ladder. A paint bucket fell on my face," Tom says sheepishly and rubs his neck. 

"Huh. Looks like someone clocked you. Lucky it didn't get you in the eye or something ," John says. He’s quiet for a while, about to say something, giving several false starts before he finally speaks. "Hey, if you want to get out of the house and get a beer or something, give me a call, okay? Not that it's any of my business... but... Look. I know you loved to play hockey. It’s not just a career you've lost. It tore me apart when I no longer could play baseball. You seem to take it well but... if you want someone to talk to who gets it..." John seems uncomfortable talking about it. No wonder really. Their community is all about keeping up appearance. Manicured perfection. You don’t go around admitting to depression or call someone out on feelings well hidden. "...or just shoot some pool and just... you know."

Tom is genuinely moved. People had lamented the loss of his career but pointed out that he’d made enough money to live well without working, giving him a pat on the back. Like he was lucky to be able to retire. This was the first time he'd encountered real understanding. The first time someone offered a hand. And John isn’t even a close friend, just an acquaintance from school and church. Tom lets his mask drop for a few seconds, letting all the pain shine through and his gratefulness show. "Thank you, John. I mean it."

"Hey. It’s the christian thing to do." 

For a moment the two of them share a moment of silent understanding, then Tom slides a grin in place. “I’m not sure if Grace will let me out though," he jests. 

John snorts in amusement. “Tell me about it. Speaking of which, I'd better go mingle or the little wifey will give me hell."

They clink their beers together before they part. Tom mulls the offer over as he cooks. He’s not sure he'll take John up on it. But maybe John too feels lonely and misunderstood. Maybe he should go get a beer with him just to see if John needs to talk. Even if he himself can’t say anything about his heartbreak over Sam, about the escalating arguments with Grace, about the crushing guilt towards God, about his depravity. It still means something to get permission to talk about the loss of his safe space on the ice.

His thoughts trail off when Justin heaves himself up on straight arms on the edge of the pool and stays like that. Tom gets a good look at him. _Piercings._ The sun glints on them, drawing attention. One in an eyebrow, another one high on the shell of the opposite ear, one in his lower lip. He even has one in a nipple. All silver rings that contrasts beautifully with his tanned skin and tattoos. Their gazes meet, Justin's guarded and reserved. Tom does a back and forth gesture, smiles broadly, and gives the boy a thumbs up for his athletic effort. Justin's eyebrows raises in surprise before his face split in a smile. _Dimples. Shit._ To make things worse the boy does something with his mouth that makes something glint back and forth between his teeth. Excitedly, Tom realise it's a tongue piercing. Athletic, tattooed, pierced, and dimpled. No, his life wasn’t easy. In this nest of purity, god had decided to drop yet another temptation. In his own yard no less. 

Tom looks away. Justin may not be Sam, but he is still gorgeous, hitting many of Tom's kinks. It’s good that Tom isn’t prone to awkward boners despite the first tendrils of arousal coursing through his body. Thinking of Sam while masturbating may bring the best orgasms but it left a vast empty hole of longing and sorrow afterwards, along with the ever present guilt. Lately Tom tried to think of others while pleasuring himself, trying to avoid the heartbroken void thoughts of Sam brought. He hates himself for it, but he knows Justin would play a part in future fantasies. He doesn’t know his age. Somewhere between 17 and 19. Good enough for Tom. Even as he looks up again at the kids the anxiety and shame starts burning and constricting his airways. Justin is sitting in a sun lounger talking to one of Jessi's classmates. As if he could feel Tom's eyes upon him he lifts his head and yet again meets Tom's gaze, smiling tentatively when he does. Tom returns the smile before looking away. _Shit. Stop looking at him!_ If he doesn’t he might slip over the line of friend's welcoming parent into discrete flirting.

* * *

Most of the conversation with people during the barbecue is just white noise. After he's had a couple of beers it no longer seems such a plight to mingle. He’s on his best behaviour, says all the right things, pays attention to conversations about charity work, bake sales, PTA gossip, mortgages, and whatnot. He touches Grace every chance he gets. If she is within reach he'll touch her shoulder or the small of her back. He'll put his arm around her waist if they're side by side or hug her from behind and lean his chin on her shoulder while they are talking to someone together. It’s not for show. He is in desperate need of closeness and comfort. He’s nervous about it though. Afraid she'll be mad about it later. He has hurt her and she won't let him forget about it. He misses their friendship, their talks and the playfulness they used to have between them. Not that he deserves his forgiveness. He wants it either way.

* * *


	5. No Homo or anything, but...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom gets a new hobby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:**  
>  \- suicidal thoughts. You know what? I'm going to stop warning about that. Tom carries around a major depression and does not want to be alive (at the moment). Every chapter that takes place in 2014 or beyond is likely to mention thoughts of suicide.

## Spring 2014

Sometimes he just wants it to end. His gaze is locked on the guns on display behind the counter. Whose bright idea was it to sell guns amongst food, clothing, and appliances anyway? At least they were under a counter.

He studies them. Small revolvers, black metal handguns, hunting rifles. He knows nothing about guns. Objects with one sole purpose―to kill. Man or animal. Pull the trigger and the soul is released from its prison to Heaven. Or in his case Hell. It would be so easy. He was going to hell anyway so why push through years of suffering here on earth? Grace would be free to remarry someone who actually desired her like she deserves. His children... they would get over him. If he did it before his secret got out they'd get sympathy. Suicide is a major sin but it wouldn’t cast a shadow over them. Not like the shame and all the disgust that'd meet them if he ever was outed. If he did it before that the world would remember him for his hockey accomplishments. Not that he deserves that, but his children did. Grace did.

"Can I help you, Sir?"

Tom looks up into the face of a politely smiling clerk. "I'm just looking."

"For anything in particular?" the clerk persists. 

"I don't know. I've been thinking about taking up target shooting. I used to play hockey and busted my knee. I want to take up another sport," he lies with an equally polite smile. "It would also be good if the gun is suitable for home protection," he adds as an afterthought. That would make sure he'd be shown a gun suitable for killing a man, not a bb gun.

"Right. Then I'd recommend this one," the clerk says and takes a silvery gun with a wood handle from within the glass counter. "It's a Colt 1911 .45. It's one of the most popular for both competitive shooting and protection..." the clerk hands the gun over and goes on talking about it but Tom is no longer listening. In his hand there now is an unfamiliar weight of an instrument of death. 

 

It’s evil, the thing in his hands. He gets stuck on its purpose. Unlike knives that _can_ be used as a lethal weapon this is made solely for killing. He’d held a katana once. A sword also fell into the category of object made solely for killing. The difference was this could render even a small child lethal. It required no skill to wield, just stand close enough and _bam_. A sword took skill or a freak accident to die from. You could defend yourself against it, run away, shield yourself. Not from a gun.

Even if you just shot competitively, or for fun, it was practise for the real thing whether you intended it or not.

Bugs aside he’d taken two lives. Both by accident. A deer which jumped in front of his car in Canada, almost taking him and his two passengers with it in the collision. It had been snowing thickly and in the middle of the night. He didn’t have a chance to slow down or hit the breaks when the deer jumped out of the woods 6 feet in front of the car. The other time he’d run over a cat dashing over the highway. That time he’d had time to react but had to make the conscious choice to not swivel or break because there were too many cars around him, they were going too fast and the asshole behind him was too close. Had he evaded the cat he would have caused a multiple car crash and it could have ended worse. Both those deaths still sat heavy on his shoulders. The only life he’s ever actively tried to take was his own and he’d failed due to bad planning and circumstances.

He resists the urge to try out how the barrel feels pressed against his temple.

This had been Sam’s choice of method when he thought about suicide, when he called Tom, desperate for someone to stop him. Tom didn’t want anyone to stop him, not back when he was a teenager, not now. Despite what waited beyond. He’d have to go away so nobody he knew would be the one to find him. A motel room out of state perhaps? Or a boat on the ocean. He could go out to deep water, put weights around his legs and lower himself into water, holding on to the side of the boat. The gunshot would make him lose his grip on the boat. He and the gun would sink to the bottom. Only the boat would be found. It would be believed that he’d fallen overboard and drowned. His family wouldn’t even be burdened with the stigma of his suicide.

“How much does it cost?” he interrupts the clerk who is still gushing over specifics of the gun.

“1.899,99 dollars, Sir.”

“What are the requirements for buying a gun?”

“We have to check a couple of things with the authorities, it takes about five days before we can hand you the gun. You have to be free from mental illness, have no prior convictions or any current restraining orders towards family. We are obligated to register the sale to you with the sheriff's department. You need to have a valid ID and have been a resident of the state for at least 3 months…” the clerk rattles on about the requirements. There’s no need for a license or anything. Basically just a background check and a couple of days waiting. Then you’re free to own and carry a murder device as you please, more or less. Tom is both appalled and excited.

“Tom?”

Tom almost flinches at the familiar voice from behind. His heart pounds hard in his chest. He turns his head and gives John a smile. “John. Nice to see you. What are you doing here?” He feels his cheeks heating up, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. He wonders if it shows what he was thinking about and full of well hidden guilt he returns the gun to the clerk.

John nods to the clerk in a familiar manner. “Hey, Joey,” he says and returns the focus to Tom. “I came to pick up some bullets. I didn’t know you were into guns?” he says and comes to stand beside Tom, leaning against the counter. The clerk―Joey―puts two cases of ammo in front of John.

“Here you go, Mr. Powell.”

John hands Joey his amex with a nod and turns his attention to Tom once again.

“I’m not,” Tom answers. “Not yet. I was just thinking about taking up a new hobby and thought maybe target shooting would be a good idea. But I’m not sure it’s for me…”

“You’ll love it! I’ve been doing it since I busted my arm. It’s a great way to get rid of frustration and anger. Want to join me to the range and try it out?” John offers.

“Right now?”

“Yeah, why not? I’m off for the day and don’t have other plans,” John offers him a smile that is open and a bit hopeful, like he really likes the prospect of having Tom join him at the range. Tom thinks about the offer John made a few weeks ago at the barbecue. Maybe John feels like a goldfish stuck in a teacup too? Maybe he too is lonely behind the facade and needs someone who can relate to the lost ability to do what you love?

“Sure. I’ll just call Grace and clear it with her first.”

* * *

John was right. He loves it. He’s pretty good at it for a beginner too. His hand-eye coordination has always been good and it translates into his aim. There is a seductiveness in shooting. Knowing what power the gun really holds, what it’s made for. It lends a feeling of control. And John is great company. Tom wonders why he’s never hung out one on one with him before. Tom concludes to John that he’s going to buy a gun when they’re done. Turns out you can buy guns right there at the range. Better up (or worse), the manager of the facility, Bennett, is a massive fan of Tom’s and in exchange for signing a jersey Bennett bypassess a shitload of regulations and sells him a Colt 1911 .45 on the spot for the discount price of 1.500 $. The background checks and registration will still be made as usual, but he doesn’t have to wait five days to get the gun.

He and John decides to go out and grab a couple of beers afterwards. First they go home to leave their cars. Tom locks the gun into his safe in the basement and calls a cab. Grace seems fine with him hanging out with John and he gets a peck on the cheek and a wish for him to have fun before he leaves.

A couple of beers later and Tom wishes he could just keep his “friend-goggles” on and stop looking at John as a man. He likes John and he could actually see this becoming a good friendship. But with his walls lowered by alcohol his friend holds another kind of attraction for him. Dark brown hair and dark, warm brown eyes, about Tom’s height, broad shoulders and a body of an ex-athlete that has kept in shape but has a bit more padding and muscles a bit less defined than during his glory days. He’s attractive and currently flirting with the waitress, showing all the charm he had back in high school. Tom used to fantasise about him sometimes back in the days and the attraction that was there back then comes back. Not full force thankfully. It’s easier nowadays. Tom isn’t confused about his sexuality anymore, he has more control. He just wishes he could think “Wow, this could be a great friendship,” without following it up by “I wonder what it would be like to make love to him?”

The waitress giggles and walks away, throwing a wink at John over her shoulder. John turns towards Tom with a satisfied grin and Tom is quick to let his eyes jump to the waitress, eying her appreciatively as he would a good looking guy, all to make sure John doesn’t suspect his true preferences. “I got her number. Don’t tell Cathy, will you?” John’s voice is slightly slurred.

Tom snorts a little laugh. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” How could he judge someone else for cheating when he himself did? And in a much worse way to boot.

“Is it hot in here? It’s hot…” John pulls his shirt over his head and Tom’s mind goes X-rated again. John is wearing a dark grey tank top underneath but it isn’t the _amount_ of skin showing that gets Tom going, it’s a patch of skin in particular.

“Woah. Let me see,” Tom’s hand has shot out of its own volition, touching John’s shoulder blade and pulling fabric aside to get a better look at the tattoo that’s there. 

John stills and looks a bit nervously at Tom, but doesn’t make any attempts to stop him. “Shit, I forgot about that.”

Tom leans closer, it’s a cross, full of intricate patterns within. A real work of art. “Shit, John. It’s beautiful,” he says and runs his fingers over it.

“You like it?” John says, surprised, and relaxes.

“Very much so. The artistry is incredible.”

John chuckles self-consciously. “Hold on,” he says and pulls the back of his tank top over his head, revealing the whole tattoo to Tom. He curves his back towards Tom to really give him access to look, and―because Tom is drunk, weak of mind, and stupid―to touch. The cross itself is a mix of styles, inspired by celtic-, medieval-, greek orthodox-, and fantasy crosses. Truly beautiful. Underneath it, previously hidden by the tank top, is a phrase in latin. 

Tom trails his fingers over it. “What does it say?”

“God lives within us,” John says not looking at Tom. _Now_ Tom registers how embarrassed John looks and withdraws his hand.

“Sorry. Seems I get a bit handsy when drunk,” he grins sheepishly as John puts his top back on. “I just like tattoos and yours is…” he trails off when his mind finishes the sentence with ‘ _hot as hell_ ’.

John laughs. “No homo or anything, but I don’t mind.”

And doesn’t _that_ just take the prize? Tom laughs while something on his inside hurts. “No. Don’t do that, John. Don’t say things like that! That’s so… so…”

“What?” John has turned towards him and is smiling bemusedly.

“Don’t say ‘no homo’. Nothing sounds as gay as that. I’d be like me saying ‘No homo or anything, but I’d like to worship your tattoo with my tongue’,” he jokes (it’s no joke) and _shit,_ he’s flirting. He feels it in his face―how the muscles around his eyes has tensed slightly to make his gaze intense and mischievous, in the bend of his neck and the curve of his smile. He’s flirting with somebody _from the congregation_ , who’s straight to boot. To deflect he pretends to be distracted by the boobs of some nearby woman.

John bursts out laughing, unaware of Tom’s rising panic. He claps a hand to Tom’s shoulder, further proving the slip up passed him by. “Holy shit, Tom, that does indeed sound gay. Is that how you heard it? I just meant that I don’t mind being touched. It’s not like you were groping me or anything," he flusters. 

_That’s exactly what I did,_ Tom thinks. But John's fear of being perceived as gay made him miss the obvious. "I overstepped. I confess, adjusting to to living full time back here is a struggle for me. You know how it is? With my team members, we were practically living on top of each other. Personal space was not..." he shrugs. "I'm just saying I forget what's appropriate at times." He takes a swig of his beer, tiptoeing into another topic, the one John had offered him to talk about at the barbecue. 

John turns serious. "I know what you mean. Back in the days when I played baseball... there was always someone falling asleep on your shoulder on the bus, slapping your ass for good luck when you enter the field, hugging you for consolation or celebration when you won or lost... Nowadays if you touch another guy too long on the shoulder guys like Paul are ready to take it as a sign that you're a faggot and burn you at a stake."

"I miss it. Every day. The companionship, the thrill of competing, the sounds of skates on ice, the freedom, the simplicity and purity of the game. I miss everything about it. And not in the slightly wistful way..." Tom admits, matching John for seriousness, leaning into the touch of his shoulder and getting a squeeze as a result. 

"...but in the 'dear god, please remove this choke chain around my throat so I can breathe again' way?" John fills in for him with a vulnerable expression. 

"Exactly like that," Tom concedes with a toothy smile and bites his thumbnail. He’s pretty sure his eyes convey the near hysteria he feels thinking about it. About all that is lost to him now. About Sam. It always circled around to Sam. But it isn't all he lost. He never really had Sam―he had no claim when he couldn't offer a claim right back. But he'd lost his safe space on the ice. He’d lost his chance at a love life with anyone. He could still sneak in a quick hook up now and then just to get off. He never really cared for one night stands, being as romantic and craving the deep emotional engagement as much as he did sex. He wishes he didn’t have as strong sex drive as he has. He wishes he could stop longing for the life he lost. That he could just _accept_ that he’s had his fun and it's over. He wishes he was an atheist. That he didn’t love and worship a god that could never love him back. But the thought that there was no god held no comfort for him. 

John squeezes his shoulder again. "Sometimes it feels like living in a cage," John says. "And we're surrounded by people just waiting for you to screw up. Ready to tear you down and judge you for slightest misstep. It’s just one big competition about who can live the most perfect life. But there's no human touch anywhere and it's driving me insane. Is this really how god intended for it to be?"

"I'm as lost as you in that department." Tom lifts a hand to squeeze John’s on his shoulder briefly. Mindful not to let it linger.

Apparently, John feels safe with him because he looks around and then lowers his voice. "I want to divorce Cathy," he confesses. "She refuses, so we won't. I mean, I know what a scandal it'd cause. Cathy could never live down the shame and scorn. _Or_ the pity. But Gemma goes off to college soon and I want out. Leave this place for good and take a chance at happiness again. We haven't loved each other for a long time and..." he shakes his head mournfully. "It won't happen. But I want to."

The confession is monumental. A divorce is a _huge_ scandal. To break a bond forged with God as a witness is unthinkable in these parts. But Tom had asked Grace for it anyway, and apparently so had John. "I suggested it to Grace too. She isn't happy, neither am I. It'd give her the opportunity to remarry someone who could love her the way she deserves," he admits around the bite on his thumbnail with the grin firmly in place. 

John looks shocked and Tom regrets making the admission. He is drunk and dumb and starving for honesty. Lying never sat well with him yet he'd been forced to live a lie all his life. There are _so many_ lies to keep track of and it's wearing him down. 

"Jesus, Tom. I had no idea. You two have always been rock solid. I don't know what to say..."

Tom shrugs and reaches for his beer. "There is nothing _to_ say. She is miserable. I'm making her miserable. I don't know how to stop. I can’t be what she wants me to be, what she deserves. I..." he downs his beer and flags the bartender for a new one. 

"She said no didn't she?"

"You could say that," Tom agrees with a chuckle. 

"They are stronger than us. Women, I mean."

Tom looks at John. “You think so?"

John nods. “What breaks us turns them hard. They are more adapted to the ways of God I think. More stoic. The strength god granted us in physical form he gave to them in strength of mind. How did she react?"

Tom chuckles. "She threatened to make sure I never got to see Jessica and Noah again if I ever brought it up again. I live for my kids. There isn't much to do. You know she'd win." The thought is physically painful, twisting his guts. 

John nods and looks at his beer on the bardisk. "She would," he agrees. 

"I still love her. Always did. I just don't love her the right way. She was my best friend. And now..." he falls quiet. He can't tell John he's afraid of his wife. How he feels like he has to tiptoe around her because her mood could swing at any given moment. He had ruined her life and he knows it. She has every right to be sad, angry, and bitter. He had no right complaining. 

"At least you still love her. Me and Cathy? We can't stand each other. We sleep in different rooms, argue all the time if we even speak to each other at all. Except at social functions when she's all perfect smiles and hand holding. How long can you keep the act up? How long are we supposed to manage this?”

“Until we die…”

“In that case, god better be waiting with my Oscar in hand.”

Tom snorts a laugh. “Tell me about it,” he says. “Tell me about it.”

* * *


	6. Thus the Heart Sings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> December 2009 - Tom meets up with Sam after the game against the Angels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:**  
>  \- Mentions of rough sex  
> \- Masturbation  
> \- Homophobic slurs
> 
> Also, I'm too tired to edit right now. Kick me if I've made mistakes.

## December 2009

Tom drops Sam off by his apartment, promising to come pick him up after the game. It’s hard to tear himself away and he's late for warm up. He doesn’t care. Knowing he'll see Sam after the game fills him with delight and he's so preoccupied by it his usually ever present guilt and anxiety stays away. None of his thoughts and worries about God and his family surfaces. Although he does ruminate on the topic of Sam’s abuse. 

The way Sam ignores pain without batting an eyelash speak of a habit of being subjected to it. It's worrisome. He may of course practice some form of martial art. The move he used to dislodge Tom's grip on his hips was a self defensive move. Used to break unwanted holds. It was way too practised to have been copied from TV. But there were little hints in what he said and did that made Tom think that abuse was still the base to Sam's high pain threshold. 

The kid was full of contradictions. He had the confidence of a spoiled brat who's raised to know that he is worth getting what he wants and isn't afraid to go for it. But Sam also lacked the pride and fear of losing face that most people had, especially those raised to view themselves as superior. There was no shame in him to bare vulnerability. He revealed his heart and left himself open to hurt in a way that was heartbreaking in its sincerity. And how shamelessly he begged... It was something that played on both Tom's paternal, protective strings and his darker, predatory ones, depending on the circumstances. 

Whatever Sam asked for he wanted to give. He isn't a good protector. His anger and violence is rarely directed outward and he isn’t vindictive (he has no right). Raised to forgive and turn the other cheek it was hard for him to be forceful. He could however listen, comfort and shelter. 

Sam had awakened something dark in him the morning he woke up to find the kid suck the scarlet A on his chest. “Whose am I, Tom? Tell me!" Sam's outright _demand_ that he claim and use him ruthlessly allowed Tom to let himself go in a way he didn’t even know he wanted, until he did. Dominating the kid in such rough way was downright cathartic. It shamed him how much he'd enjoyed it. Yanking his hair, manhandling him, and squeezing his throat to accentuate how much power the boy had given him... he'd almost come when the kid's hand came up to make him squeeze harder. The trust the kid placed in him sent him reeling. Afterwards he'd felt lighter, more free, than ever before. He’d made sure Sam had known how infinitely loved he was after. No one deserve to be subjected to such rough treatment without being cherished and adored afterwards. 

He plays at his best, warmed by Sam's promise to watch the game on TV. Any duels for the puck with Morningstar tickles his curiosity about the man he suspects Sam to have a crush on. Morningstar is ruthless and vastly skilled. He belongs in ChHL without a doubt. He’s not prone to trash talking during a game, he doesn’t have to. He can fuck somebody up well enough anyway. He checks Tom into the board so hard he sees stars at one time after Tom scores a goal. 

Tom doesn’t mind the violence of the game. On the ice he's a whole other person completely. He enjoys the simplicity of it all. You did your best, worked hard, and gave as good as you got without being judged for it. God has nothing to do with it, nor does one have to live up to the expectations of social norms of society. Every game is a moment of freedom. 

The end result is 2 - 2. He’s too excited to be disappointed about not winning. He makes short work of showering and changing, forgoing the usual banter in the team, and is the first one to leave the dressing room, carrying his bag and car keys in the same hand. On his way to the exit of the ice hall he spots Lucifer Morningstar and his curiosity gets the better of him. "Morningstar!" he calls out to get the younger man’s attention. Morningstar stops and turns around, one eyebrow raised in vague curiosity as Tom catches up to him. Tom gives him a friendly smile. "Good game tonight. It’s as much a pleasure as a surprise to meet players of your calibre in this division,” he says. It’s not a lie. It’s more satisfying and fun to play against better players and since the Reapers got moved down last season it had been less inspiring to play.

He almost instantly regrets having given in to curiosity as Lucifer looks him over. The younger man is tall, blond and has average looks. His eyelids are heavy and he keeps his features in a amiable but otherwise unreadable expression. He’s got a wide mouth with a soft looking lower lip. His eyes are the same colour as Tom’s own but the resemblance stops at the colour. It’s his eyes that has Tom regretting his curious whim. They scrutinize Tom in a way that makes it feel like the man sees straight through him and uncovers every secret he’s ever had, every lie ever spoken, and they’re _cold_. Tom is certain that this young man is fiercely intelligent and should be handled with care. His heart speeds up nervously. The scrutinizing goes on just for a beat too long before there’s a barely noticeable shift in Lucifer’s face―the tiniest fraction of a smirk.

”Thank you.” Lucifer offers a hand to shake. “Tom, was it?” _Tom_. Not Thomas like people who didn’t know him usually said. Of course, he could have just heard Tom’s teammates call him that, but it was somehow unnerving paired with that penetrating gaze.

Tom shakes his hand. He’s got a firm (but not crushing), even grip. “That’s right.”

”My congratulations on being recruited by the Ice Bears. You’ll find the opposition much more to your liking next season. As well as your salary,” Morningstar says as he lets go of Tom’s hand.

Tom’s eyebrows shoot up. “Thank you. I am looking forward to switching teams. But how do you know that? It’s not been made official yet.” The deal had been signed barely a week ago. Tom had been obligated by contract to stick around in the Reapers for another season when they were pushed down a division. He couldn’t wait to be back in the ChHL.

Lucifer hums noncommittally and tilts his head with a small smile. ”You were on the table for players to recruit. Sadly we realised we wouldn’t be able to pay the wages you’d demand.” Which, to be honest doesn’t answer the question of how Morningstar possesses knowledge of a deal that’s still a secret, especially considering that he’s just a player, not a trainer or team owner, but Tom isn’t going to push. He fingers the crucifix on his car-keychain absentmindedly. He’s more than a little unnerved. He has always thought that ‘Lucifer Morningstar’ is a taken name, a show of rebellion to intimidate and make a childish statement. But with how the younger man’s sharp eyes seems to see beyond every masking layer he wonders if ‘Lucifer’ might actually be an apt name serving as a warning.

A new voice joins in from behind them in the corridor. “Well, _he_ -llo there, gorgeous! Stop the bus and let me _get on_!” Tom turns his head to see another Angels forward walking towards them with a big grin, eyeing him appreciatively. An Englishman named Balthazar Roche. He’s blond just like Morningstar, with pale eyebrows and thin lips, but radiating good natured mischief. His V-necked sweater shows too much cleavage for decency and when he stops beside Lucifer and stretches, it rides up to display a nice set of muscled hipbones and a trimmed happy trail, plus no underwear peeking up through the low cut jeans. He offers Tom his hand. “Hi. I’m Balt.”

Tom shakes his hand. His grip is firm, but less so than Morningstar’s, and he twists his hand slightly palm up, offering Tom the upper hand so to speak. Tom gives him a polite smile. “Tom. Nice to meet you.”

Balt doesn’t let go of his hand. He gives Tom a slow once over, grin still firmly in place. “My, my, sweetheart. I must say. The hockey get-up does _not_ do you justice. When you slammed me up the board earlier I didn’t think I’d want a repeat performance but I’m certainly rethinking that right now. Let’s make it the headboard next time shall we, darling?” The come on is delivered with so much warm humour it loses its sleaziness and Tom feels his cheeks heating up. His eyes flick towards Lucifer. The man has crossed one arm over his chest and is pulling at his lower lip with his other hand. There’s a knowing glint of amusement in his eyes and Tom’s sure he’s been outed.

Here’s the thing. When you look at somebody you unconsciously make an evaluation of whether or not you would sleep with the person or not. You’ll revise that later based on their behaviour and personality, but your brain makes the first draft of a decision at first glance. It happens so fast, and being in the closet Tom constantly has to guard himself not to inadvertently give himself away during that first impression evaluation. It’s about where your eyes go. Women take his behaviour as being well mannered when he looks them in the eyes when they talk, notice new haircuts or compliments clothes and jewelry without staring at their chest or ass. It has nothing to do with that. His brain simply filters away them as non-sexual objects from the start.

Men is a completely other ball game. His eyes will take note of details a straight man wouldn’t look at. Like taking note of the guy’s lips and mouth. It’s really hard to stop. Noting Lucifer’s soft looking (kissable) lower lip could be missed by an onlooker, but checking out Balt’s hipbones and happy trail the way he had was harder to explain away. The good thing is that somebody without the same set of ‘sex-goggles’ as you stood a lower chance of noting where your eyes went if you were discreet as Tom generally was. That meant most straight people didn’t notice unless they hand one foot in the lgbt movement somehow. Lucifer’s razor sharp eyes hadn’t missed it though, Tom was sure. And that had nothing to do with ‘sex-goggles’ and everything to do with observation skills.

Tom’s cheeks flush darker and he lets go of Balt’s hand, squeezing the crucifix in his other hand. Balt speaks up before he has a chance to reply. “Me and Lucifer are breaking our curfew to go out and have a few drinks. Care to join us?”

In another time and place Tom would have said yes. He couldn’t afford to pass up opportunities when they dropped in his lap. Balt may not be the most handsome man but he had a nice body and an easy going and sympathetic aura that was disarming. But now he was buzzing to see Sam so there was no competition. “Thanks for the offer but I have to pass,” he answers with another polite smile.

”You let a fucking faggot touch you, bible boy? Careful or you might catch something.” The shout comes from one of his own teammates and instantly raises Tom’s ire. He’s not the only one. Lucifer’s expression and posture shifts. It’s subtle but he looks ready to kill. Jenkins, the teammate in question, is making his way towards the exit together with Bauer, another teammate. Jenkins is looking at Balt full of disgust. “The bible says all you filthy faggot scum’s gonna burn in hell.”

”The Good Book also says not to judge as we humans cannot presume to comprehend the thoughts of God, Jenkins. So why don’t you shut up and mind your own business?” Tom counters with restrained anger. He hated homophobes like Jenkins. Quick to use the bible as an excuse for their hate but without having read a single page of it in their life.

”Hey! Why’re you pickin’ on me for? That was fucking sexual harassment I saw there.”

”And I guess you know _all_ about that considering your own gross treatment of women,” Tom says scowling, glaring daggers at Jenkins. He drops his bag on the floor and changes his grip on the car key without thinking of it, preparing for a scuffle. As Jenkins and Bauer gets closer he turns his back on Morningstar and Balt, keeping himself as a shield between them and his two teammates where they pass. Jenkins is an asshole and prone to start fights, both verbal and physical. He'll go in for a sucker punch but rarely attack a prepared foe. Tom will be damned if he’ll let Jenkins harm anyone in his presence. 

Jenkins ignores the comment and spots Lucifer. “Ooo. You’re talking to the devil too now? What will your congregation say, Tommy boy?” he taunts. Bauer grips his arm tight as they start passing, not wanting a fight either.

Tom moves along with Jenkins and Bauer without thinking, making sure he stays between them and the two Angels. “Lucifer was the most beautiful of the archangels, God’s favourite―made to be worshipped. He was cast down because he refused to serve creatures vastly inferior to himself. While I may not agree with him rebelling against God, meeting you makes it easy to understand _why_ he did it.” He hears the two Angels snigger behind him and Jenkins gives him the finger and sneers “Fucking bible basher,” as Bauer drags him along towards the exit.

”Jesus, you two. Like two cats in a bag,” Bauer mutters and then they’re gone.

Tom turns back to the two Angels. “I’m sorry about that. Me and Jenkins don’t get along very well.” Balt is openly smiling. Lucifer is regarding him with a re-evaluating expression, looking pleased with him. As unsettling as the young man’s knowing gaze is, the unwanted flare of pleasure in his chest at Lucifer’s approval is even more so. It’s just something about the man that speaks of power and makes Tom want to be on his good side. Tom wonders if it’s the intelligence and power that draws Sam to the man. 'Friends' he had said. It’s less of a mystery why Morningstar would be interested in Sam (even just as a friend). Sam’s as intriguing as he’s beautiful.

"That came across," Lucifer says dryly with a smirk. 

"I'm afraid I was a bit of a hypocrite though. The Bible says not to judge but I can't help it, I'm judging the hell out of him. He’s got so much hate in him and I can't help wishing he'd get what he justly deserve for being such an asshole."

Lucifer sniggers. “Don’t worry, Tom. He will. Believe me, he will."

Much later when Jenkins has an accident that puts him in a wheelchair, dependent on other people for the rest of his life, Tom will think back on Lucifer’s answer and wonder... It’s preposterous of course, but it still makes him uneasy.

* * *

He parks the car outside of the apartment Sam shares with his brother and calls Sam. Sam picks up at first ring. "I'm outside."

”Dean’s not home. Won't be for another couple of hours. So, I dunno. You wanna come up?"

It’s possible it's a bad idea but he trusts Sam's judgement on whether or not they will be disturbed or not and accepts. His inside is a mess of fluttery bubbles as he makes his way up and rings the doorbell. Sam opens the door and pulls him inside, kicking it firmly shut behind Tom. Then Sam seems to freeze for a moment and stands there just looking at Tom, momentarily at loss. Sam’s barefoot, dressed in a washed out tee that might have been black once, and the same Adidas pants he had before. His hair is pushed out of his face, cheeks ever so slightly flushed, the hickey notable on his neck. He’s so beautiful it makes Tom’s heart clench. Tom knows he has a big moronic grin on his face, he's just so happy. Sam’s smile is much more hesitant with a hint of insecurity around the edges. Tom wonders if he suddenly realised the danger of letting a strange man into his home. Somehow, this excites him. He steps up to the tall, gangly teenager, crowding him, cups his cheeks and leans in for a soft chaste kiss. “Hey,” he says and leans their foreheads together.

”Hey,” Sam answers and winds his arms around Tom, relaxing into him.

Sam is tall. He is taller than he was three months ago. Tom had noted it when they met earlier today but hadn’t been sure, especially since most of that meeting was done sitting. He might even be a bit taller than Tom already. Tom wonders how much more he’s going to grow, if he’ll get to see Sam as an adult. If he goes down the route he told Tom about earlier and became a professional athlete he’d fill out that lean frame of his. He’d be gorgeous no doubt. He already is. But as a full grown man he’ll be even more so, Tom’s sure. “You’ve grown,” Tom states and hugs Sam closer.

”Yeah? Disappointed?” Sam asks and tenses up a bit.

Tom smiles warmly and strokes his cheek. “Not at all, Sam. Just noting a fact. Soon you’ll be too big for me to do this,” he says, smile growing mischievous, and bends his knees. He hooks his hands around Sam’s legs and lifts him up with a quick pull.

Sam whoops in surprise, clinging with arms around Tom’s shoulders and hooking his legs around Tom’s hips. He laughs in delight and his eyes are practically glowing. “Oh my god. I’m too heavy for this!”

”Never,” Tom says laughing. He vows to himself that there will never be a day he will allow himself not to be able to lift the kid. The power of sheer excitement Sam radiates sizzles like firework of responding joy under Tom’s skin. He spins them around and pushes Sam up against the door, not letting him down. “Did you watch me?” he asks and kisses the tip of Sam’s nose playfully.

Sam chortles, smiling so wide it nearly splits his face, deepening his dimples and slitting his eyes. “Yeah I did. You’re really good. Nice goal you made.”

”I did it for you.”

Sam rolls his eyes, still grinning. “Dude. That’s so lame.”

Tom raises his eyebrows in mock offense. “What? It’s true! I always play my best when I’m trying to impress someone.”

”You were trying to impress me?” Sam asks with sceptical amusement.

Tom grinds himself against Sam while reaching out to lock the door, eyes full of playful challenge, daring Sam to refute it. He leans in with a self-confident smile and stops when their lips are just barely touching. “I did. Did it work?” he asks and nips lightly in Sam’s lower lip.

“Yeah… it did,” Sam says on a soft exhale and closes the distance between their mouths. Tom closes his eyes and just revels in the feel of Sam’s lips and soon enough tongue. His stomach keeps swooping the same way it does when you drop for a steep dive in a rollercoaster. They kiss for several minutes, until Sam starts feeling heavy as he’s relaxed in a way that no longer helps holding his own weight up.

“I could do this all day, but I’m a bit curious too. You going to give me a tour of your home, kid?” Tom says against Sam’s lips.

Sam heaves a little unhappy sigh at having to stop. “Yeah… Um. I guess,” he says and lets Tom put him down. “Come on it. Take off your shoes. Dean will throw a fit if we trail slush inside.”

Like Tom would ever do that. But Sam doesn’t know him that well yet. He takes off his jacket and shoes and looks around. The hallway is small and square and opens up straight into the living room that is rather airy and has been divided in the middle by the couch. This way, anyone who’s sitting in the couch can just turn his head to see the front door and the (giant) TV is visible for the one entering. There are bookcases filled mostly with dvds lining the walls. There’s an armchair on either side of the couch, a living room table, dvd player, xbox, stereo. The walls are mostly bare save from some photos, but there are nice curtains covering the windows. Apart from a school book and Sam’s hoodie over the couch it's clean. 

"It’s just you and your brother living here?" Tom asks curiously. 

"Yeah."

"No adults?"

Sam stiffens defensively. "Dean's an adult," he answers in a clipped tone.

Tom can’t help but to laugh. "I didn't mean it like _that_. It’s just surprisingly clean for a sixteen and twenty year old living together, that's all." He smiles at Sam to put him at ease. The boy is very defensive of their independence. 

Sam relaxes. "Yeah. Um. Dean's a neat freak. I'm not, I guess."

"Most teenagers aren't. Not twenty year olds either. I sure wasn’t at that age. Didn’t put much stock in keeping it clean until I became a father."

"Dude. You _were_ a father at twenty."

"You got me there," Tom says, smiling. "But I lived in Germany the first years of my career and was only home for brief visits and during the summer. When I moved back the kids had started to move around wreaking havoc and then cleanliness became a necessity."

Tom walks into the apartment peering around, Sam trailing after him. Stepping inside there’s a door to the left (Dean’s room Sam explains), a corridor to the right that leads to Sam’s room and a walk in closet. Alongside the corridor in the living room is the bathroom and next to it the kitchen with it’s doorless archway and bar counter separating it from the living room. If you sit by the kitchen table you are still able to watch TV and have a conversation with a person on the couch. It is the age difference that makes Tom bold to the point of rudeness when he steps inside the kitchen. He opens the fridge and cupboards curiously. The amount of hard liquor the boys have is worrying. As is the stock of beer in the fridge. But the pantry and fridge is also well stocked with food. Healthy food and vegetables. "Dean cooks?"

"Yeah. Not every day. But mostly. He’s really good. He can work magic with mac & cheese and makes a lot of the dishes I like even if he complains about it being rabbit food." There’s no mistaking the pride in Sam’s voice and demeanor when he talks about his brother. 

"How long have you been living alone here?"

"Two years."

"He’s been taking care of you for two years?"

"No. So get this. Mum died when I was two, right? And dad was... well he was sick from time to time. So Dean has practically taken care of me since he was six. And at times he took care of dad too, until he died four years ago."

"Sounds like a heavy burden for one so young. You don’t have any relatives that could take care of you?"

Sam crosses his arms over his chest and frowns. “Look. We can take care of ourselves,” he says resolutely, defensive in every inch of his posture.

Tom laughs and hooks his hand inside Sam’s crossed arms to pull him close. He gives him a kiss and smiles at the boy. “I don’t doubt that for a second, darling. Bottom line is you shouldn’t have to. By the look of things you’re doing a great job the both of you. I just want to know more about your life, I’m not going to tell you how to live it,” he says and laces his fingers together behind Sam’s back, locking him close.

Sam relaxes and looks a bit contrite. “Sorry. It’s just. We had to fight real hard to stay together. And a lot of people get upset about it and want to take me away from him, you know? That’s getting better. I mean, I’m getting older. But when we moved here Dean had just turned 18.” Sam winds his arms around Tom in the same manner he’s holding Sam. “We lived with our uncle Bobby after dad died. He’s not our blood relative but he might as well be. He and Gabe have been a constant backup for us. Hey, you want something to drink? Beer or something?” Sam asks and leaves the topic.

“No thanks. Not when I’m driving. You still want to spend the night with me, right?” Tom asks Sam nods. “In that case I was thinking we could stay at the Blue Beds motel?” Tom had driven past it on his way into town. It lay just outside of town and seemed secluded (if somewhat crappy) enough for an occasion like this. 

“Yeah, sure. I’ve never slept there but that sounds good to me.” 

“Then that's settled. Care to show me your room, kid?”

Sam’s room isn’t extremely big, but not small either. It has a window to the street, a bookcase alongside one wall, a desk by the window and a bed by the other wall. His letterman jacket is hanging over the desk chair. His desk is an organized mess. Books are lying open with post it notes sticking out from different pages, there’s a ton of loose papers with notes on, pens, neon coloured markers, laptop… It’s easy to see that Sam takes his school work seriously. There are a couple of photos pinned to the wall beside the window. They’re all of Sam and Dean together at various ages but the oldest one is from when Sam is about twelve? Thirteen? Tom reaches out and touches one. “No baby pictures?”

“Ain’t got any. Our house burned down.” Something in Sam’s voice makes Tom turn around. Sam has a guarded look on his face, showing that they once again have strayed into a topic he’s not willing to talk about. Tom, however, gets distracted by the posters above Sam’s bed that he hadn’t seen when he entered the room. There’s four of them, all of hockey players. Sam’s brother―which Tom’s realised Sam idolizes to remarkable levels (seemingly for good reasons), Peter Forsberg, Wayne Gretzky, and Tom himself. It makes Tom stupidly happy that Sam keeps a picture of him on his wall.

“I’m in good company, huh?” he says and nods towards the wall.

Sam’s cheeks turns a darker shade of pink. He keeps his relaxed posture but fidgets a little, having trouble to hide his embarrassment. He quirks a little smile. “Um. Yeah. I wanted to put up one of the pictures of you from that article in _USA Hockey_ but I was afraid Dean would think it weird and get suspicious.”

“How long before he’s back?”

“I dunno exactly. A coupla hours?”

Tom takes the letterman jacket from the desk chair, throws it on the bed and sits down in the chair. “So… the risk of Dean coming home to see you do something you shouldn’t isn’t all that great?”

“Doing what... exactly?” Sam retorts with a smirk slowly growing on his face.

“Me.”

Sam looks at the bed, at him, at the letterman jacket, at the poster of him on the wall. Tom can see the wheels turning inside his skull and it makes his heart speed up in anticipation. Whatever thoughts are taking place behind Sam’s forehead it bodes well for Tom because Sam is visibly getting hard, the sweatpants doing nothing to hide it. When he looks back at Tom his eyes are narrowed and his smile has turned downright devilish. “You want to make love to me here, Tom?”

Tom licks his lips. “Yes.”

Sam’s responding chuckle is dark and filthy. “No. I’m not gonna let you.”

“Is that so?” Tom counters with a raised eyebrow. 

“Mhm.” Sam moves over to the bed and pulls his shirt over his head. He drops it on the floor―while keeping eye contact with Tom―and picks up the letterman jacket with slow deliberate movements, his expression calculating and teasing all at once. “You’re in a sixteen years old boy's room… a poster of you on the wall… no parents at home…” He puts the jacket on. “Lovemaking is not what's going to happen…”

Tom bites his bottom lip. That damned jacket. “Shit. You know exactly what you're doing, don't you, kid?” His voice comes out hoarse, dick stirring in his pants. And really, a sixteen year old should not be so sexually confident as Sam. Shouldn't be buying plugs or jumping on a chance to play out filthy scenarios fit for porn. He should be nervous and awkward, maybe even fretting about losing his virginity. But here he is, putting on the jacket with a sly smirk, trailing fingers down his bare chest and stomach, down inside his waistband tugging at it teasingly. 

“Nu-uh,” Sam denies. “I have no idea. And you’re gonna take advantage of that…” For a moment Sam holds a mock innocent expression that shifts to wicked satisfaction when Tom hisses between his teeth. He tilts his head and strokes his hardening dick outside of his pants, looking at Tom looking at him. “You know,” he hesitates for a beat. “...I've jerked off looking at that poster,” he says. Outwardly he’s all cocky but a blush spreads across his cheeks to reveal that maybe he isn’t as cocksure as he seems.

“You have, huh?” Tom mirrors Sam’s action, stroking himself outside of his pants. Sam has the lead on this. He’s dragging it down to its dirtiest layer, revealing how twisted this is by putting emphasis on his youth and the age difference. Tom looks at the bed and at the poster. “Must have put a crick in your neck at that angle…” he states considering the posters are all above the headboard.

Sam chuckles. He takes off his pants and steps out of them, cock now bobbing free and glistning of precome at the tip. Naked save from the jacket he climbs onto the bed and lays down on his back, head by the foot end and legs falling open. He turns his head to look at Tom, the playful little smirk back on his face, and starts jerking himself off with slow movements, one hand trailing over his torso. “No. I do it like this. You want me to tell you what I fantasise about? What I imagined you doing to me if you ever ended up in my room?”

“Yes. You know I do, you teasing little imp.” Tom’s breathing harder. Sam's so sexy like this. And so shameless. Hand stroking up and down his shaft languidly, catching precome and smearing it over the head each stroke. 

“Come closer and touch yourself and I will.”

Tom can’t hold back the laughter that comes bubbling up with an excited thrill. “Shit, kid. How did you become so assertive?” Tom scoots himself closer―as close as the chair will go―until his knees hits the mattress. Sam stares fixated, biting his lip, when Tom takes his dick out of his pants and starts stroking it to full hardness. Sam reaches up and catches a bead of precome from it and sticks the finger in his mouth, eliciting another hiss from Tom.

“I've thought about you. About us… when I fantasise about you being here in the room with me…” Sam closes his eyes, hand speeding up on his dick and a filthy moan spilling over his lips. “...I think about the morning I sucked the scarlet letter onto your chest.” He opens his eyes, big, round, and innocent, and looks at Tom. “Did your wife see it?”

Tom’s spellbound. “ _Yes_.”

For a moment Sam just looks at him open mouthed with a wondrous expression, then his eyes fall shut and he groans, pinching his nipple, back arching slightly off the bed.

Tom hears himself utter a moan of his own in response. 

“I imagine you fucking me here in bed… letting me suck you off until you’re close to coming… then I picture you tugging me up by my hair and turning me around on all fours…” Sam keeps his eyes closed while he talks. His face getting redder as he goes, blush spreading down his chest. It’s hard to tell if it’s from arousal or embarrassment. “...taking me roughly, _mercilessly_ … owning me. Marking me up with hickeys and telling me I'm yours like I ain’t got no choice in the matter…”

“...fucking me so hard I won't be able to walk straight afterwards. Punishing me for what I tempt you to do... Sweat coating us, soaking my sheets in our scent.”

Sam opens his eyes. His eyes are feverish and his breath is ragged. He scoots up on the bed so his head hangs backwards over the edge of the bed between Tom's knees. He blinks up at Tom. “Make it happen, Tom,” he says and opens his mouth wide, sticking his tongue out and looking hungrily at Tom's cock. 

“ _Shit_ ,” Tom breathes and without thinking it over he angles his cock down to Sam’s eagerly awaiting mouth.

* * *

Afterwards they lie panting with matching huge grins on their faces. Both of them are flushed from exertion and coated with sweat that plasters their hair to their foreheads and curls it to wet locks. Tom kisses Sam on the forehead and down his neck and shoulder, Sam curves his neck to accommodate him, eyes falling shut. “Will you let me make love to you at the motel?” Tom asks affectionately. 

“I'd be pissed if you didn't,” Sam answers with a pleased smirk and cracks his eyes open. 

Tom reflects on the fact that despite what he'd just done he feels no shame, only light and floating in bliss. He thinks it's because while Sam gives him permission to be rough, uninhibited and dominating Sam is ultimately in control. He’s one hell of a toppy bottom when they do it this way. There’s no mistaking his pleasure when he’s manhandled, tugged by his hair, pushed down into the mattress with a hand firmly placed by the knob of the spine. And by god, their shared excitement when Tom grips his throat… Tom will never squeeze as hard as Sam wants. He won't, he _can't_ ―he hasn't got it in him to do so. Sam did the same thing he did the last time, put his hand over Tom's and regulated the pressure, making the grip tighter. It may have been what pushed the both of them over. Sam’s a brat. Demanding and keening out his wants and needs. There’s no need to second guess if he's doing it right. The moment they'd both come Tom snapped back in his usual loving mode, curling protectively around Sam, kissing and caressing him gently, tugging his blanket over him to cover him up and telling him what a wondrous little miracle he is. 

Tom feels tired and sated but energised and invigorated at the same time. “We should shower,” Tom says and kisses a hickey by Sam's collarbone. He has no right leaving possessive marks except Sam had demanded them, so now he touches the marks reverently with lips and fingers with a warm glow in his chest. 

“No. I don't wanna,” Sam pouts, making Tom giggle. Sam smirks and brushes the hair from Tom's forehead. “Besides, it'd beat the purpose of working up a sweat together. I want to be able to smell us on my skin and on my sheets for as long as possible.”

That releases another burst of bubbly butterflies in Tom's belly. He’s stupidly in love with the kid. Maybe that too plays a part in him feeling comfortable with the game they just played. Right now he knows that he should feel like a dirty old man, but he doesn’t. He feels like he did when he was eighteen and met Stefan in Germany. Just as young and goofily happy, albeit so much more experienced than he was then. “I wish I could too…” The room stinks of sex, but not only sex. It smells of _them_. The scent of Sam mixed with Tom. Tom does indeed wish he could have that scent stuck in his sheets. He wishes he could bury his nose in it every night he went to bed. For the rest of his life preferably. He’s a hopeless romantic. He knows that. And age difference or not, he wishes he could keep Sam as a constant part in his life. This might be the last time they see each other. It should be. But that’s a problem for another day. He traces one of the dimples on Sam's cheek with a finger. “These are going to be the death of me. You’ve got killer dimples, my little demon child, you know that?” he says with a fond smile. 

"Yeah? How else am I going to get you to give me your soul?” Sam answers with a sly smirk that slits his eyes in a cat like manner. Right now they're moss green. Moments ago they were a dark hazel hue. Tom wants to know every shade and hue those lively eyes could turn. 

“It’s yours. Anything else you want from me?” He likes that Sam acknowledges the sins Tom’s committing by being with him and that Sam doesn’t care jack shit about it.

“No. Just your soul,” Sam says flippantly. “...and your body. Hm… and your heart. No biggie.”

Tom laughs and kisses him. “It’s all yours, kid. All yours.”

He feels Sam’s grin against his lips. “In that case, I'm good. Don’t need anything more than that.”

Tom bends his head, closes his eyes and lets out a series of short breaths in silent laughter. He drags his nose back and forth over Sam’s tattoo, kisses it, goes lower to suck Sam's nipple into his mouth, relishing in the hitch in Sam’s breath it elicits. “Guess that makes you a cheap lay, kid,” he jokes with a shit eating grin. 

Sam sputters, halfway between indignantly outraged and highly amused, and shoves Tom off him. He rolls on top of Tom, straddles him and pins his arms to the pillow over his head with a firm grip on his wrists. “Cheap lay, am I? In that case I better raise the price,” he says with a devilish grin that is nothing short of predatory. He licks his lips and leans down, eyes intent on Tom’s throat. Tom chuckles and bends his neck to give Sam better access, even if he knows that each mark left brings greater risk of discovery―and discovery will hurt Grace. 

They say that ‘What you don’t know, won’t hurt you’. But a crime is still a crime even if it goes undetected. You’re still committing adultery even if you’re not found out. And somewhere deep down inside of him there’s a relief that Grace knows he’s been cheating. He _hates_ lying. Untrue words always taste so bitter on his tongue, and he’s spoken _so many_ of them. His sense of wrong and right demands that he should be punished when he does wrong on purpose. It’s rare that he is though. Sam sucks a mark high on his neck, one that’s going to be hard to hide short of using makeup. Then he sits up straight to inspect his work with a smug smile. 

“If you do that a couple of more times I’ll be ready for round two in minutes,” Tom warns.

Sam grins, looking like he thinks that would be an excellent way to continue this evening. But then his face falls. “Wish we could stay here. Wish I could text Dean and tell him I pulled and that he should stay away. But if I did he’d probably rush home to inspect my catch. So we better get going soon.”

Tom chuckles. “Mmh. I see how that may present a problem. You want to go skating on the lake?”

Sam laughs. “You’ve just played the Angels, then had vigorous sex, and now you want to go skating?” he asks incredulously. 

“Mmhm,” Tom confirms smiling. “You can bring your stick and I can give you some pointers.”

Sam stares at him in wonder for a while. “Um. Yeah. Actually, I think I'd like that…” he says, sounding surprised about wanting to. His lips twitches in amusement. “I thought you were supposed to get _less_ energy as you get older?”

“ _Pfft._ I’m a man in my prime. It takes more than this to make me run out of steam.” Tom winks at Sam. Truth to be told it was pure joy that had him so energised.

* * *

It’s dark outside but this part of the lake is right by the town and the ice reflects both the evening sky and the lamplight. They play like children, passing the puck back and forth or chase each other, throwing taunts and teasing each other. Not many people are about, although further up the lake on the Angel Falls side there are some people playing hockey, too far away to be a bother. 

Chasing Sam down Tom hooks his club around his midriff and pulls him in. “Hooking!” Sam laughingly protests. “You’re cheating!”

“Tell that to the ref,” Tom answers with a smirk and, feeling happy, bold, and reckless, drops his club to wind his arm around Sam and grab his hand, holding it between them. Sam drops his own club in favour of snaking his own arm around Tom as Tom leads him around the ice in slow circles, looking at him with a soft smile and heavy eyelids. 

“Are we dancing?” Sam asks, lips twitching as if to hold back an amused grin.

“It would seem that way, kid,” Tom concedes, rubbing his cold nose playfully against Sam's equally cold one. 

Sam chuckles. “There’s no music,” he challenges, but shows no sign of wanting to stop.

“Who needs music when the heart is singing?”

“Oh my god. You’re such a romantic dork,” Sam says with a suppressed giggle and hides his face on Tom's shoulder. 

“You like it,” Tom counters cockily and rests his cheek against Sam's. 

Sam’s quiet for a while, just letting Tom glide them around the ice in a vague semblance of waltz. Then he says, quietly, like a confession, “I love it…” and Tom's heart truly sings.

* * *

Tom stops by a store and buys champagne and snacks on the way to the motel. They shower together, drink champagne and make love, slow and sweet. They eat and lie in bed talking, makes love again and fall asleep wound tightly around each other. Sam has another nightmare that he doesn't want to talk about. Tom holds him close as he cries, his own heart bleeding in response to Sam’s suffering. Afterwards Sam talks. Not about what he dreams of, but about the dreams and how they affect his life. How his brother comforts him and how he doesn’t want anyone to see him like this, how he feels too vulnerable and don't want people to wonder. How only a few of Dean’s friends have seen him like this but as far as they know it's a rare occurrence. How no girls get to spend the night and how he never stays the night with Brady despite them being so close. But he feels safe with Tom and that's why he wants to spend the night like a normal person would. Tom wonders what he did to earn that incredible level of trust. He doesn’t ask. He’s just glad he can give Sam that. They make love again. And just as Tom’s about to fall asleep Sam switch into his “demon mode”, playful and mentally sadistic in a way that has Tom firing on all cylinders. They don’t get much sleep after that, only an hour or two. 

If you look at it crassly Tom's just a monster preying on a minor, no matter how good his intentions are and how willing Sam is. It’s hard to feel dirty and wrong about it when his heart feels too big for his chest just by looking at the kid. When the rest of the world fades away to nonexistence in his presence, his laughter makes Tom's soul sing in joy, and his touch spark like electricity and births belly-butterflies.

It was a mistake meeting up with the kid again. He'd convinced himself that this stupid infatuation would go away if he did. Despite the phone conversation telling him otherwise. He’d been so very wrong. The feelings born of their first night together has multiplied tenfold. More. He’s totally and utterly gone for the kid.

There’s no pretence about their lovemaking. It'd be self indulgent and presumptuous to think Sam harbours the same kind of feelings for him. But the look in his eyes, in his face and body language holds the same tender, awestruck joy and reverence as his own. Sam acts just as giddy and dorkily happy. And in the morning when Tom drops him off by the apartment, Sam seems equally heartbroken at having to part.

Tom leaves, vowing to himself that this has to be the last time they meet. He can't allow himself to indulge in this aberrant love, no matter how much he yearns to do just that.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure what went on in Sam's head while he put on a little show and talked about his fantasy was something like this:
> 
>  
> 
> _What am I doing??? Oh my god, holy shit, I can't believe I'm doing this! Oh my god! Oh my god! Holy crap! I'm actually doing this!_


	7. Be my Forever Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom may have realised he was gay at the age of fifteen. But his attraction towards boys was there since always. In the beginning it wasn't sexual or romantic per se. It isn't when children are involved. But the ability to fall in love is present in even the smallest child, long before it's defined into a specific kind of love. At the age of five Tom learns a new word - "Sodomite".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Semi unrelated note:**  
>  I know there's people out there who doesn't believe in love at first sight or first meeting. I do, having experienced it over and over. All kinds of love, from friendship to romance. You meet someone and something just clicks into place within minutes. Tom shares this with me, unlike Sasha who needs a long time to develop deep feelings. The Winchesters are closer to Tom on the spectrum of easily forming emotional attachment, Luci and Castiel closer to Sasha. And, believe it or not, Michael is the closest one to Tom on the spectrum of how easily he develops strong emotional attachment.

## Five years old, August 1981

There’s something about the other boy that makes Tom all bubbly and happy inside. He’s been playing with Oscar for hours now. Oscar’s ball rolled into their yard and he came scampering in after it. They played ball, then pirates, then monsters, then they played tag. Now they’re play fighting and tickling each other, laughing themselves breathless while their parents drink coffee on the patio. Tom _likes_ Oscar. He had never felt this bubbly inside before from meeting anyone. He wishes they could be brothers and never have to part. Despite just having met he likes Oscar right up there with mom and dad and granny and his cousin Madge. 

They sit beside each other trying to catch their breath, looking at each other with goofy smiles. Oscar has a gap between his teeth. He lost two teeth almost at the same time and now if you peer closely you can see new teeth peeking out of the gums. Tom wants to show Oscar that he likes him. How _much_ he likes him. So on impulse he leans in and places a kiss right on the other boy's mouth. That’s what he does to mom and granny and Madge and dad.

When he leans back away Oscar looks shocked. “Why'd ya do _that_ for?” he asks. 

“Cuz I like you and I wish you could be my forever brother. Isn't that what you do when you like someone?” Tom asks and scrunches up his face in a troubled expression. 

“Kiss em?”

“Yeah?” Tom says and gnaws on a hangnail nervously. Maybe Oscar don't want to be brothers with him. Maybe it's just Tom that's this happy to have met him.

“Oh.” Oscar blinks at him, mulling it over for a beat, then his face split up in a gap toothed grin. “Okay,” he says and leans in to kiss Tom on the mouth right back. There are no words to describe the jubilant feeling inside. They giggle and give each other another kiss. 

It's just a chaste peck, nothing else would even occur to any of them until years later when puberty set in. But it still felt good and right in every way to young Tom. Until…

” _Thomas!_ ”  
“ _Oscar!_ ”

Their mothers tear them apart and rushes them away in different directions. It happens so fast Tom can’t even begin to comprehend what happened. His mom whisks him inside and she's angry and looks worried. She forces him to wash his mouth with soap water. His father spanks him. He’s never gotten a spanking before. He cries of course, not understanding what he did wrong. 

They sit him down and explain that boys do not kiss boys unless they are _so-do-mites_. Tom's not sure what a sodomite is except that they have something to do with Satan and somehow everything bad in the world is their fault. He doesn’t want to be one. He promises he'll never kiss a boy ever again.

* * *


	8. Parental Supervision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom comes home to find an unwelcome surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:**  
>  \- panic attack
> 
>  **Notes:**  
>  Tom is not a reliable narrator when it comes to himself. Just saying.

## Spring 2014

He comes home carrying groceries to find Jessi, Noah, and Justin studying together at the kitchen table. This is the first time he’s seen Justin since the barbecue. He’s not too happy about having the kid in his home. It's hardly Justin's fault he can't keep his mind PG rated when he sees him, but he’d preferred if the kid's appearance here was a one time thing. "Hey, kids," he greets them. The three of them look up, his children smiling and Justin with guarded apprehension. 

"Hi, Dad. This is Justin," Noah introduces their guest as Tom unloads the grocery bags on the kitchen counter. He turns around with a smile and offers his hand to shake. 

"Hi, Justin. Nice to meet you. I'm Tom." Justin relaxes slightly and shakes his hand. The kid is wearing eye make up. Not much, just some kohl under his eyes. It makes his eyes pop and appear unnaturally blue. Maybe he wears coloured lenses? His eyes matches with the blue streak in his black hair. 

"Hi Mr. Rainsborough."

Tom lets go of his hands and looks at Jessi. "Where's your mom?"

"She’s at granny and gramp's. Said she'd be home tomorrow." It's a testament to how far he's fallen that all he feels about hearing that is relief. 

He takes a painkiller from the counter, swallows it with water and turns to his kids, unhappy to find the three of them eyeing the box of meds conspicuously. It’s become too much of a habit to take painkillers and his knee hardly bothers him anymore. He can't make himself care enough to stop. They make the anxiety dwindle to almost bearable levels. "Alright. Help me with the groceries, will you? There’s more in the car."

"I'm on it," Noah says and gets up up, Justin following him. "I told you he'd be okay with you being here," he hears Noah tell Justin when they leave the room. Jessi helps unpacking the groceries, happily chatting away while the boys carry in the remaining bags. Tom steals surreptitious glances at Justin, hoping they'll go unnoticed. The young man is wearing a black tank top that puts his tattoo sleeve on display, black baggy low riding jeans with a fat key chain looping down the side of his leg. Tom’s not a fan of baggy jeans, but at least the guy doesn't have them hanging down with half his ass on display. (A trend Tom will never understand.) And then there is all those piercings...

 _Shit. Stop thinking about it._

The look Justin is sporting is one Tom associates mostly with sex, not so much romance and lovemaking. To him it's shameful ventures to gay clubs, quick bathhouse hook ups, and back alley blowjobs. Tom finds piercings and tattoos infinitely sexy. There is nothing better than to get someone naked only to discover a nipple piercing or a tattoo. But the whole getup Justin’s sporting? Combined with Tom's mounting sexual frustration and neglected need to be touched it amounts to him feeling more perverted than ever.

The kids settle back by the table to do their homework and Tom pours himself two fingers of whiskey in a tumbler. He sits down on the opposite side of the youths and grabs a newspaper, not really interested in reading it. He takes a sip of the whiskey, willing the burning liquid to alleviate some of the anxious churning in his gut. "So. How do you guys know each other?" he asks. 

Noah is the one to answer. "Justin's in my class." 

"So you’re seventeen?" He directs the question right to their guest this time. 

"Eighteen, going on nineteen, Sir. I've been held back.”

 _At least he’s legal,_ Tom thinks which eases his guilt for being attracted to the guy a notch. 

Jessi blows a raspberry at the same time as Noah says “For fucking dumb reasons!”

“Hey, hey. None of that language in our house,” Tom scolds.

“But it’s true. Like, Justin was sent to the principle three times today. _Three_! And it was all on unfair basis,” Noah protests and Justin gives him a warning look with widened eyes. But Jessi and Noah had always been relatively open with Tom and they often talked with him while doing homework in the kitchen in the evenings. It was one of Tom’s favourite moments of the day. Especially when Grace wasn’t there and he himself didn’t have to guard his tongue as closely. 

“Three times, huh? They didn’t suspend you did they?”

“No, Sir. Principal Hester Tilden is fairly reasonable. She only punishes me for breaking actual rules.” Justin looks defiantly at Tom, challenging him to refute that he couldn't possibly have been sent to the principal unjustly. The tongue piercing drags along his teeth, adding it’s own sound of defiance. 

“So why did you got sent there?”

Noah answers for Justin. “In history class the teacher said we were gonna talk about the taming of the west and Noah said that ‘taming’ is a very crude way of describing genocide. So that started a discussion where she said that the settlers were only defending themselves and Justin said that since we were the ones coming to steal land and property it couldn’t be counted as defense and then she sent him to the principal.”

Tom takes a sip from his glass, the beginning of a smile on his lips. “You made a valid point,” he says to Justin. “Then what happened?”

“Then at math Justin asked the teacher to explain something he didn’t understand―”

Justin takes over, frustration carrying in voice and posture. “―so he explained it the same way again and I still didn’t get it. He explained it exactly the same way again but slower and louder which made just as little sense so he sent me to the principal for not paying attention.”

Tom snorts. "So he blamed you for his lack of competence. And the third time?"

This time Justin gives him a cheeky dimpled grin and both his own children giggles. "We had sex ed."

"What? You asked about contraceptives or questioned the 'no sex before marriage' ideal the school promotes?"

"Nope. I asked the teacher to explain women's periods." Justin looks smug about it. 

"And then he proceeded to correct the teacher all the time when he tried to explain." Both Noah and Jessi sniggers. 

"What? It’s in anyone's interest to know how women work if they are interested in women," Justin defends himself with mock innocence. 

Tom grins along with his children. He admires Justin's guts but does not envy him. He sets himself up as a target. "Did you ever get that math problem explained?"

"No, Sir."

"Want me to take a look at it and see if I can explain?"

And that's how he finds himself standing leaned over the young man, cursing his helpfulness and sex drive inwardly. He’s too close for his own comfort. Not too close for decency or to cause suspicion, but close enough to catch Justin's scent. Fruity shampoo mixed with an almost worn off fresh sporty deodorant along with the faint scent of sweat on sun kissed skin. The tattoo sleeve is right under his face and he tries not to stare. There are a number of Christian motives―virgin Mary, the three wise men, Jesus, shepherds, cross, rosary, angels―woven together without looking messy. Kind of funny considering the tattoo was one of the things that made people gossip about Justin worshipping Satan. Justin rolls his tongue piercing back and forth in the seam of his lips when he concentrates. It clicks against his teeth and the ring in his lower lip and draws Tom’s eyes towards his mouth any time he lowers his guard. Tom’s self-loathing is at an all time high. 

There’s a number of things about this that Tom finds slightly nauseating, and it isn’t the age thing alone. Not now that he knows Justin is on the right side of legal at least. Number one is that it’s a friend of his kids. Someone who’s supposed to be safe and under his protection while under his roof. Not preyed upon as a sex object even if Tom keeps his hands and thoughts to himself. 

Number two is the fact that Justin triggers all these base and dirty thoughts and is _right here_ , in Tom's own house, within the community where he has to take extra care to hide his homosexuality or hell will be released not only upon him, but on his family. He really wishes Justin will stay away from here in the future. Acting as the welcoming and helpful parent is straining under the circumstances but Justin should be treated no different than any other guests in his house. He had meant what he said―‘ _any friends of my children are welcome in our home’._

He does manage to figure out how to explain the math problem in a way Justin understands and is rewarded with a downright brilliant smile that lights up those unnaturally blue eyes from within.

"Thanks Mr. Rainsborough. That makes so much more sense than how the teacher explained it."

He gives Justin a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Happy to be of help," he says and turns his attention to Jessi who wants help going through the essay she’s writing. 

"You staying for dinner, Justin?" Tom asks. 

The young man seems surprised at the question, despite Tom’s welcome this far. Tom thinks his looks probably has a lot of people stopping him by the door. It makes Tom sad. "Um... if I may? Gotta clear it with my parents first..." 

"You’re Tim and Margaret's son, right?"

Justin nods. 

“Then there shouldn’t be a problem,” Tom says and gets his phone out of his pocket. He sits down on his place opposite of the kids and calls Justin's parents. "Hi, Maggie. It’s Tom Rainsborough... yes. Thank you, it was nice having you over too. ...Uh-huh. Absolutely, but that's not why I'm calling..." The kids look expectantly at him while he talks. "Yes. Justin's here and―" Tom can't keep the frown of his face when Justin's mom cuts him off with a annoyed sigh and a ' _Oh great. What did he do this time?_ '. Tom forces a smile back in place to make it carry over in his voice. "Nothing, Maggie. I can assure you. He’s here doing school work with my kids. He’s very bright. You must be very proud," he jabs back protectively. Justin snorts skeptically and leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. His mom makes a sceptical noise on her end too. "I've offered him to stay for dinner and I wonder if it's okay for you? He’s welcome to stay overnight too if he wants―" Jessi and Noah nods enthusiastically at that. "―since he and Noah are in the same class and can carpool to school. In other case we'll see to that he gets home safely tonight... no I'll be home all night, they have parental supervision." He rolls his eyes and winks to the kids as he says that. The 'kids' are young adults for crying out loud. "...Uh-huh... Mhm.... Of course. I will. ...yes. God bless you. Here he comes..." Tom holds the phone to Justin who raises an eyebrow in question. Tom keeps his face neutral. 

Justin takes the the phone. "Hi mom... Yeah. Mr. Rainsborough is helping us with our homework. ...yes mom. ....mh... yeah. ...okay. ....alright...." even without hearing Maggie you can see the list of 'don'ts' she's giving him by the fed up body language he has. “...Yes mom. Okay, bye.” 

No sooner has he hung up before Noah’s on him. “Well? Can you stay?” he demands.

Justin grins at Noah. “Yeah. I even get to stay overnight.” Noah fistpumps, Jessi smiles brilliantly and Justin looks at Tom. “Thanks, Mr. Rainsborough.”

Tom shrugs and makes a dismissive hand gesture, then gets up to start making dinner, taking his remaining whiskey with him. It’s absurd that Maggie and Tim considered Justin to be in need of parental supervision after 7 at night when he’s old enough to vote or enlist. God knows he doesn’t need _Tom_ keeping his eyes on him.

* * *

After dinner Tom gets up. “Alright, kids. You handle the dishes, I’m heading downstairs.” All the pots and pans were cleaned already and there was only the plates and utensils left to put in the dishwasher. Jessi and Noah had been responsible for taking care of the dishes since they _were_ kids (unless they helped cooking) so they get to it. Justin gets up to help as Tom’s on his way out.

“You’re not gonna stick around and supervise?” he asks, almost challengingly.

Tom turns around in the doorway, leans against it nonchalantly with his forearm high up on the doorframe and the other hand in his jeans pocket, a leg slung in front of the other. "Oh, come now. You’re a big boy aren't you? I'm sure you don't need me to keep an eye on you," he says with a teasing smirk. Jessi and Noah laughs and rolls their eyes, calling him a nerd or something like that but Tom isn’t listening. The combination of pain meds and whiskey is making his tongue too loose and before he thinks better of it he adds “Should you feel the need of _supervision_ I'll be in the den."

" _Dad!_ Go away!" Noah protests while Jessi's still laughing but he must have lilted his voice wrong or looked at Justin the wrong way because Justin caught the double meaning in the joke. Tom's sure he did and _shit shit shit_ he wishes he'd kept his mouth shut. His kids just acts as if he tried to be funny and came off as a dweeb instead (like kids often did even when their parents were actually funny thank you very much.) The very idea that their dad would flirt with or proposition a friend of theirs―male or female―is so foreign to Noah and Jessi that he probably could have said 'wanna come downstairs and fuck' to Justin and they would have thought he made a crude and very bad joke. 

For Justin however the idea isn’t that far fetched. Tom sees it in his body language. ( _Really? Was I really that obvious?_ ) Justin's eyes widens a fraction in surprise at the same time as the noise of his bell bar clicking rapidly against the inside of his teeth escapes his mouth. _Brrt, brrt, brrt, brrt._ Then his gaze turns calculating and he gives Tom a once over like he hadn't before, catching at the sliver of skin by the hip bone made visible by Tom's languid pose, and on his smirking lips (Tom's tongue dart out to wet them on its own accord), then stop and lock on his eyes. 

Tom hadn’t considered for a second that Justin could swing that way. He’s as guilty as everybody else in the congregation of thinking that homosexuality and bisexuality doesn’t exist in their closed community. But it does, well hidden and shamed into denial. He’s the living proof of that.

But Justin's eyes conveys interest and that is just _bad bad bad_. Young men should NOT look at him the way Justin's looking at him now, hitching his hip, tilting his head flirtily and popping the bell bar out to rest between his lips. “I don’t know Mr. Rainsborough. I'm a bad boy… maybe you should keep a _hard_ watch on me,” he says and lets his tongue piercing play back and forth over the ring in his lower lip, smirking faintly. The gleam in his eyes is provocative in the come-play-with-me way. 

Tom is hard pressed not to start hyperventilating in fear, his heart beating madly in his chest. 

_NO NO NO! Please, dear lord Father in heaven, don't let me be outed this way! Not in front of my children. Don’t let them see what a despicable creature I really am. I may not deserve your mercy but_ they _do._

Tom snorts unimpressed and gives Justin a look bordering on disdainful. The gleam in Justin's eyes is replaced by uncertainty, maybe even a hint of fear―most likely for the same reason Tom’s fighting a panic attack right now. It immediately triggers the protective side in Tom and what he really wants to do is to assure the young man that ‘No. You didn’t misread my signals, and no, I won't out you or let you suffer any ill consequences due to your sexual preferences.’ But he can't do that without outing himself and he’s never going to do that on purpose in this community. 

The good lord seems to be on his side this time because his children don't catch the underlying conversation between him and Justin. Jess just laughs and Noah―misreading what goes on―gives Justin a light shove. “Don’t pick a fight with dad. He’s one of the good guys,” he chastises Justin who finally breaks eye contact and looks at his feet, shoulders drooping. 

Tom turns his back to the kids and saunters off with the most laid back swagger he can manage, raising a hand for a half hearted two fingered wave without looking back. 

Once he's safely down in the den he locks himself into the bathroom and promptly proceeds to have a major scale panic attack. It was long since it hit him so hard. Years. A decade or more. His heart beats erratically, he’s hyperventilating and he can’t stop. Tears come unbidden, his head is spinning. He sits on the bathroom floor curled into a ball, head between his knees and his fingers laced together hard behind his neck. It goes on for so long his arms and legs turns into pins and needles. It feels like he’s dying. The worst part is that he knows he isn't. 

When the attack finally abates he's exhausted. He sits on the floor and just breaths for a while, body shaking by the occasional after tremor. 

_Thank you dear Lord for not letting my children see me like this._

Noah referred to him as “one of the good guys”. The thought almost sets him off again. If his son knew how wrong he is… Tom _needs_ Noah to believe that. He needs to set an example worth living up to. He wants his children to be strong, confident and _good_ people. The way he’s failed to be himself. He's weak and ugly and full of lies to cover it up. He misses Sam. Sam sees his ugly sides and still gives him affection. His longing for Sam is part of what makes him such a bad and ugly man. _Weak. Sick. Depraved._

Tom gets up and stares at himself in the mirror, gripping the sink weakly. His eyes are red from crying, he’s pale, his nose and cheeks splotchy and red. He has to stay in here until it's faded so his children won't see. They need to believe that he is strong. That he can weather any storm so that they will know that they too can get through rough times. 

He's often been told that he’s good looking or hot. Tom can’t see that himself. He’s heard it often enough from both women and men. It’s not what Tom sees when he looks in the mirror. His shoulders are not broad enough, his body too small, so he compensates by working out, shaping his body as well as his physique allows for. When he doesn’t he tend to lose weight too fast and get too lean for his taste. His eyelids are too heavy. He thinks it makes him look constantly tired while people tell him it makes him look calm and cool. His teeth are too yellow and no matter what he does he can’t get them white. His lips are not full enough and his mouth is too wide. When he smiles he looks like a shark. People have told him his smile is open and contagious. He could not see anything hot in the mirror no matter what people said, never could. That someone as naturally beautiful as Sam could find him attractive is a mystery. Not that he’s complaining. But Justin's response to his reckless come on is a catastrophe. 

It’s one thing to lust over someone unattainable. It’s easy enough not to act on unreciprocated attraction. He’s never gone for anyone who isn't a willing participant. The very idea is abhorrent and just fantasising about guys without their knowledge and consent―something he does often enough―fills him with guilt.

If Justin offers himself to him the levels of difficulty to resist rises sky high. He can never ever take up on that offer and he fervently prays that this was just a one time thing. That the disdain in Tom's eyes made Justin uncertain enough not to try again. At the same time it feels very bad to undermine the young man’s confidence. Lord knows he's got enough people doing that already and Tom doesn’t want anyone to go through what he’s been through. Justin's already setting himself up as a target with his deviant looks and by challenging any perceived critique self defensively. The poor boy must be suffering hell. He probably has it much worse than Tom does and needs allies, not people preying on him. (Tom's proud of Jessi and Noah for seeing beyond the exterior and giving the boy a chance.)

“Dear Lord Father, why must you try me so hard?” he asks, looking at the ceiling. But then again, it's nothing compared to what he put Jesus through. He instantly regrets the thought. He has no right to compare himself to the son of God. Jesus was pure of soul and heart. Blessed. Not corrupted by disease of mind like Tom…

* * *


	9. Come Away With Me...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2011 - Sam keeps asking him to stay. How can he say no?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Notes:**  
>  This is the direct continuation from [chapter 18](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3201401/chapters/7658849) in The Croatoan. For those who haven't read it - Sam was about to commit suicide but called Tom as a last desperate measure. Tom came to his aid and they met up at a hotel.

  


* * *

## 2011

**27 - 30 April 2011**  


* * *

The comedown from the drug is gradual. Whatever it was Sam had acquired them it was potent stuff, nothing Tom had heard of before. The experience was nothing short of religious. Another stone to his burden of sins yet he can’t make himself to feel guilty at the moment. Not like he feels like right now―purified, freed of guilt and shame. Absolved from his sins for the first time ever.

They lie tangled together, sharing slow caresses and occasional tender kisses. Tom wishes he could convey the endless love he feels for his kid, he’s brimming full of it. By the look in Sam’s eyes maybe he does feel it. Sam’s face is soft, muscles that always are slightly strained by internal struggles have relaxed, a mirror of his own face. Sam can never be truly his, but this wonderful kid who thinks himself tainted―a monster―loves him back and it shows. 

Tom had always suspected Sam had suffered abuse due to his frighteningly high pain threshold, even now he must be suffering hell without it showing, but the reality of what Sam is going through is almost unreal in its horror. In this post-coital bliss worries about it lies dormant for the both of them.

There’s a calm, a stillness to all the feelings and thoughts inside of him. He feels light, floating almost. A quiet and content joy he’ll pay dearly for later. He’ll think himself a bad man for not being able to help, to stop, what’s happening to Sam. He can’t do that without betraying the trust Sam has invested in him. So by not going to the police he’ll enable the further abuse of Sam. It’s the wrong thing to do, keeping his promise. Yet he’ll be selfish enough to choose Sam’s trust just to keep that endless affection in his hazel eyes. He vows to take whatever secrets Sam burdens him with to his grave.

”When do you have to get back?” Sam asks at long last.

Tom grins. Good question indeed. He had walked out on his family with a sketchy half-excuse. The amount of time he could get away with going AWOL had long since passed. There was no lie convincing enough to cover this up, not since he hadn’t called home to explain. Just left and shut his phone off the moment he spotted Sam in the lobby. “A couple of hours ago.”

Sam snorts in amusement and gives him a dry look. “Stay with me another day?” Sam smirks while he asks, a devilish challenge in his eyes. Sam knows exactly the consequences should Tom say yes. _The little shit_ , he thinks affectionately. Tom closes his eyes and shakes his head. As always the list of why he should say no is miles long. “Okay, kid. I’ll stay one more day,” is what he says. When he opens his eyes and looks Sam in the eyes. He is happy, despite what’s waiting for him when he gets back.

* * *

He ends up staying a couple of days. Both of them keep their phones switched off, lost to the rest of the world. For a few days Tom is living the dream, being reckless and pretending this could last. 

Sam takes his hand when they’re strolling through the city. Unlike previous boyfriends that have been out and proud Sam’s eyes scan the surroundings constantly and he lets go if he sees someone with a camera (even if it's just a teen taking pictures of a friend), or wearing hockey supporter apparel, or any other elements that may cause trouble for Tom. At one point he lets go and disappear completely. They’re at a market and Sam just melts into the crowd. Tom's just about to start looking for him when he hears someone say "Oh my god, it's Thomas Rainsborough!" And then he's approached by a guy in an Ice Bears cap. Once he's gotten away from the fan Sam materialises by his side again with a tiny smile and winks at him.

They shop for clothes and toiletries and have a simple salad for lunch in the park. When nobody's around they kiss and walk with arms around each other’s waists. Sam’s discretion is all for Tom’s sake. It becomes apparent when they get to the part of the city the LGBT community has its stronghold in. Normal people are still plentiful in this area and there are some degrading comments flung their way. Sam meets it with a smirk or a wink, unruffled.

“Don’t say it like that,” Sam says and stops, tugs on Tom’s hand to pull him around to face him.

“Like what?”

“‘Normal people’. Look. I mean, yeah. We may not be normal but not for the reason you imply when you say it like _that_. So don’t talk about us like we’re unnatural in anyway. There’s nothing wrong with us.”

They’re outside of a restaurant sporting the rainbow flag above its entrance. This is a ‘safe’ space, as safe as it’s ever going to get. Tom faces him full on and laces their fingers together. “But it is. It’s a disease of mind, kid. Against the will of God.”

“No.” Sam’s jaw sets stubbornly, defiance shining out of his eyes. “Don’t say that. You believe God created us all, right?” he doesn’t wait for Tom’s nod. “And God doesn’t make mistakes―men do. And men wrote the bible, the quran, and every other religious script ever written. We don’t know what God thinks. But come on, Tom. If you look around closely you’ll find homosexuality and bisexuality in almost any species. So don’t say it’s a disease, like it’s wrong how my heart skips a beat everytime I see you. Like it’s wrong how you make me feel warm, safe, and accepted like no one else can. Like, I dunno how to express this, but…” Sam makes a frustrated noise and scowls down on his feet. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Get this. With you? What I feel… it’s the closest thing I ever feel to normalcy. Ever. It’s like you feel _with me_ when I tell you things, you know? Like, other people, they, I dunno. They pity me and only see a victim. But you, you kinda like… I dunno. Maybe it’s just how I perceive it, but. You act as if you see that all the shit I’ve gone through is part of what makes me _me._ And that’s okay.”

“I’m not okay with any of the hardship you’ve had to go through, Sam.”

Sam lets go of his hands and rolls his eyes, lips pressed together to a thin line in annoyance. “Dude, that’s not what I mean.”

Despite the topic, Tom finds himself grinning and tugs Sam close, lacing his own fingers together behind his back. “I think I know what you mean. Let me see if I can verbalise it… You’re a piece of precious metal. You’ve been subjected to intense heat and bent into a new shape. You feel like other people only see the new twisted shape while I still also see how precious you still are, is that about right?”

Sam laughs. “Yeah. Something like that I guess. But more like, they think I’m broken when I tell ‘em stuff, and I do too. But you don’t see ‘broken’ you see ‘bent’ and with you, _because_ of you I see ‘bent’ too and I can live with that.”

“I’m bent too, you little imp." 

Sam grins, seriousness evaporated. “Nah… I would say slightly curved is a better description,” he teases, no longer talking about souls.

They eat at the restaurant, Sam orders a rum and coke. He isn’t carded but he reassures Tom when the waitress goes to fetch their orders that he’s got a fake ID that says he’s 22. It’s a relief and changes what they can do while they’re together. The waitress remark that they are a cute couple and Sam curls in under Tom’s arm with a big smile, thanking her and saying that he lucked out. Tom may not agree that Sam is the lucky one but it makes him all warm and fuzzy anyway. Tom takes him out afterwards. They end up at a piano bar where they drink wine and slow dance while a woman in a sparkly dress sings “Come Away With Me” by Norah Jones. Every time Tom holds up a door or pulls out a chair for Sam Sam blushes slightly and gives him shy smiles that makes his heart flutter.

On the walk home they find an empty alley where they make out like both of them were teenagers. Back at the hotel Tom rubs painkilling gel on all of Sam’s bruises, and salve his torn ass. They’re too emotionally exhausted to make love anyway although Sam makes a valid try to get Tom going. They fall asleep tangled up in each other.

Tom wakes up to a blowjob in progress and rain smattering against the window. Sam pops off long enough to ask Tom to stay with him another day. How could he say no? He can’t, he doesn’t want to, so he says yes.

They spend most of the day in bed, ordering room service, making love and dozing. But mostly they talk. They talk about everything between heaven and earth. About Tom’s family, hockey career, ex boyfriends. Sam is very curious about what it was like playing for the National Team in the World Championships ten years ago.

“Stressful mostly. We were all great players but none of us had played together before and the chemistry was lousy. At least we beat Canada. Sweden and Finland were tough competition, but then again, the nordic countries are frozen over most of the year so let’s blame that, shall we?” he jokes. 

“Who was it that won? I forget.”

“The Czech Republic. We played back in Germany where my career started. It was… it was distressing. I met Stefan when we played Germany and my heart broke all over again. He was my first real love. By then he had gotten married to a woman he loved and become a father. It hurt, but it’s how it should be. I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving him completely...”

Sam bites his lip and seems to be thinking. He rests his chin on his hand on Tom’s chest. “Do you think it’s possible to be in love with two people at once?” he asks at last.

“Of course. I think the human heart holds endless capacity for love.”

“Yeah but I mean, like, is it possible to be _in_ love with two people at once?”

"Endless. Capacity." Tom bops his nose twice while answering to accentuate his point. He is amused by the question since he's willing to bet good money on _whom_ Sam is referring to. Why else would he carry a picture of him in his wallet? Or get flustered and vehement in his denial when asked about it? Oh yes, it may be two years since the topic of Sam’s relationship with Morningstar came up, but ' _it's not like **that** ', 'we're just friends―it's complicated_', and ' _it's not allowed_ ' is fresh in Tom's memory. “So what’s the name of my competition?” he asks teasingly.

Sam’s eyes widens and his cheeks reddens. “It’s not, I’m not, I mean. I was just wondering in a general sense,” he flusters then turns his head away, laying his cheek down on his hand as if he’s afraid Tom will see the lie if he meets his gaze.

Tom chuckles. “Trying to make me jealous, kid?”

Sam looks back at him with an interested twinkle. “Are you?”

“I’m jealous of everybody who gets to spend time with you when I can’t.”

“But you’re not jealous jealous?” Sam asks dubiously.

Tom sighs and looks up at the ceiling, stroking Sam’s soft hair absentmindedly. “I am, but I have no right to be. But…” he goes silent and Sam waits patiently for him to go on. “I guess I hold a lot of traditional values about how the ideal relationship is supposed to be.”

“Yeah. You’re a romantic sap,” Sam sniggers.

“Shut up, you little brat, I’m being serious here,” Tom chides affectionately.

“Sorry. Go on,” Sam says with a grin.

“What I’m trying to say is, when I really think about it, I probably could share and be happy doing so. I'm not… I guess I'm not very possessive? Yet again it comes down to the endless capacity for love I believe us to possess. Loving one person doesn't retract from the love you have for another. So what I feel about you is probably envy rather than jealousy.”

Sam looks up at him with a thoughtful expression. After a while he nods to himself and lays his head down on Tom's chest again. He doesn’t say anything for a long while after that.

* * *

Each morning Sam asks him to stay another day and each day Tom says yes. Sam's a spoiled brat that makes a mess and expects it to magically clean itself up. Shoes are kicked off haphazardly, clothes dropped where they are removed. Tom nags a bit just to nag but don’t actually mind. Years of being a parent has him picking up and folding habitually. Candy wrappers and such is picked up by the cleaning staff while they're out. They visit museums and art galleries, Sam displaying excitement and exuberance that makes it hard to believe that just days before he was broken enough to hold a gun against his head intending to pull the trigger. 

They dine out, go window shopping, have drinks, and make love. Tom’s happier than ever. It can't last of course. 3 PM the thirtieth it comes to an end. 

They’re hidden out of view behind the corner of a building, kissing, when the sound of a muscle car makes Sam break the kiss and peek around the corner with a troubled frown. Tom follows his gaze to see a shiny black Impala ‘67 pull up by the curb on the opposite side of the street. Dean Winchester gets out, looking around with a worried expression and Tom knows this is where it ends. 

Dean starts walking down the street away from them, stopping people to ask something, handing out fliers. What he's asking is hardly a mystery when he holds a hand up at Sam's height and gesturing at his hair. When he's out of sight Sam turns to Tom, eyes all frantic and earnest. “Run away with me, Tom. Please. We can go anywhere. Change our names, they'll never find us. We'll get an apartment, I'll get a job. It'll be you and me for real.”

The wish to say yes is so strong it twists Tom's gut and forms a lump in his throat that makes it hard to swallow. “Noah’s only fourteen…”

Sam’s eyes are brimming with emotions but he nods after a beat, understanding the ‘No’. He kisses Tom then, pressing himself close into a desperate embrace that's both ‘goodbye’ and ‘I don't want to go’. Tom holds on just as tightly, then, before he lets go he whispers “I love you, kid. I always will. Never hesitate to call when you need me.”

It’s physically painful to watch Sam go. It couldn’t last. Not like their lives are, but Tom already knows this is going to be one occasion where he'll regret doing the right thing.

* * *


	10. First taste of Freedom - Stefan Xavier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom meets his first love, Stefan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, if you're in the multi-fandom crowd, I'm expecting a "I see what you did there..." and a sly wink. 
> 
> In some AU's OTPs don't get their happily ever afters even if they meet. But they can get a couple of moments of happiness together at least. :)

## Germany, 1994

His name is Stefan Xavier and he plays left winger in the German team that recruited Tom. It took about three minutes for Tom to be totally enchanted by the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. 

“American! Wait up. You speak German?” Stefan calls out, runs to catch up, and throws a friendly arm around Tom's shoulder when he's on his way from the first practice with the team. Tom’s heart flutters nervously and his face heats up. 

“Um… Ich spreche ein wenig nicht so sehr gut?” he answers uncertainly, lilting his answer like a question. 

“A little is more than none. Is good. You want we go for beers? Learn the city? I be your guide?” Stefan answers in broken English with a big grin. 

“Das würde mir gefallen. Ja,” Tom answers, feeling half panicked and half elated that the guy wants to spend time with him. He's afraid he'll somehow give himself away, as he always is when he meets a guy he likes. 

Turns out he totally failed to hide his attraction. He finds that out later in the evening when Stefan has shown him around town and they've been bar hopping enough to be stupidly drunk. Despite the slight language barrier Tom's had loads of fun. Stefan is mad in the best sense of the word. If he gets an impulse he follows it. He’s two years older than Tom and practically glowing with life. He keeps an arm slung around Tom's shoulders more often than not, sits closer than necessary and keeps longer eye contact than Tom's used to. Tom thinks it's a European thing. That is until the bars close and Stefan invites Tom to have a beer at his apartment. 

They stumble inside still laughing after pushing each other around in an abandoned shopping cart they found. Tom can’t wipe the silly grin off his face. He sways where he stands, watching as Stefan giggling helps him remove his jacket and scarf. He manages to kick off his shoes and Stefan takes his hand, leads him to the living room and shoves him down on the couch. “I go get beers. No go away, okay?”

Like he would even if he could. Every touch is electric and he's drowning in the overwhelming emotions Stefan awakens in him. He’s the most beautiful guy Tom's seen in his life and he'll do anything just to get to stay a few more minutes with him. 

Stefan comes back with two bottles of Flensburger pilsener, hands one to Tom and sits down so close on the three seat couch that their sides touch, one arm slung over the backrest behind Tom. Tom's heart beats a mad melody behind his ribcage. Looking back at this night Tom will think it's a testament of his naivety that he didn't see it coming. 

Stefan holds up his beer for a toast. “To us, yes?”

“To us,” Tom agrees happily and clinks their bottles together. They drink, Tom keeps fiddling with the inside seam of his jeans by the knee to stave off his nervousness. Stefan keeps his gaze locked on Tom while they drink then puts his beer on the living room table. His perfect cherry coloured lips quirk in a lopsided smile. He takes Tom’s beer from his hand and places beside his own on the table without taking his eyes of Tom. Then he licks his lips and leans in, looking at Tom’s lips.

Time seems to stop. Tom’s mouth goes dry and his heart speeds up. Stefan is leaning in slow enough for Tom to withdraw should he want to, but not until Stefan’s lips touch his he actually believe it’s happening. Goosebumps break out all over his skin. He tries to formulate coherent thoughts, come up with reasons why they shouldn’t be doing this. Nothing. Nada. Apart from an inner primal scream of exhilaration there’s no other thoughts. Gone are all the ugly slurs and gone is Grace and gone is God. The only thing that exists is Stefan’s lips on his. His own hand comes up to cradle Stefan’s cheek of its own violation.

It’s the green light Stefan needs to turn the kiss less chaste. They kiss forever. They kiss until Tom’s lips are raw and chafed. Until they both breathes raggedly and Tom’s head is spinning. He didn’t know it could be this way, couldn’t imagine it. Not until Stefan’s hand finds its way down to his pants does he protest. “I’m too drunk. I don’t know if I…”

“Is okay. Stay the night? I want hold you when we sleep.”

“Just hold me?”

“Yes. I’m drunk too. Want you. But want to sleep with you more. Am very tired.”

Tom giggles, as drunk on love as he's drunk on alcohol. “Okay. We can do that…” He wants to do more than that, but somewhere in the back of his mind he doesn't want to ruin this. The only sex he's had was painful and humiliating if you don't count his one time with Grace on their wedding night, and that was painful and humiliating in a completely different way. Stefan doesn't push though. Not even when they're tangled up in each other in his bed, wearing only T-shirts and underwear. It's the best thing he's ever experienced to fall asleep that way. Stefan has a lot of patience with Tom sexually, waiting for Tom be be ready. It only takes about a four days of increasingly hot and heavy make out sessions before _Tom_ runs out of patience. And when he does Stefan takes his time prepping him and making sure he enjoys it.

It’s the start of the most stormy relationship Tom will ever have. Stefan’s a force of nature with very little impulse control. Stefan’s an express train that doesn’t wait for anyone. On the sixth day Stefan tells Tom he loves him. Within a week and a half they’ve moved in together. Tom needs somewhere to live anyway and being “roommate” with a team member doesn’t raise any eyebrows. Stefan takes him to gay clubs, points out when Tom is being flirted with or blows a jealous fuse whenever he thinks Tom’s flirting. It goes a long way to teach Tom the subtlety that goes with being a closeted homosexual. Stefan is exceedingly jealous of Grace, despite Tom ensuring him he harbours no romantic feelings towards his wife. Stefan wants him to divorce her, and despite having promised her forever with God as a witness Tom considers it. Until the phone call comes that changes everything. Grace is pregnant and Tom’s world falls apart. It gets worse―Jessica is born almost two months too early and has to spend the beginning of her life in an incubator. Tom isn’t there, he's stuck in Germany. When he finally gets home and gets to meet his daughter something breaks inside his heart, but in a good way. As in love as he is in Stefan, nothing compares to the overwhelming feeling that overtakes him when he holds Jessi for the first time.

There’s a thousand little things that clashes between him and Stefan. None of them translates onto the ice. When they play they are two pieces of a puzzle, with chemistry and drive. Media takes note of it but despite them being openly very affectionate (no kissing in front of the camera) the media dubs them ‘brothers from different mothers’ and interprets their love as friendship.

They fight a lot. Stefan is an atheist and has no patience for Tom’s faith and deeply religious streak. Stefan can't see anything wrong or sinful with their relationship. They love each other and if Tom's god thinks that's wrong then he's an evil god and can go to hell according to Stefan. Tom on the other hand has frequent breakdowns from guilt and shame, thinking he's perverted and sick for loving another man. He can't apply that kind of thinking on others though. Stefan is too amazing and brings him so much joy, pleasure, and happiness it's impossible to think of him as perverted. It hurts though, to hear Stefan talk badly about God and Jesus, that he refuses to go with Tom to church, and that he mocks Tom's prayers. 

Stefan’s bad impulse control combined with alcohol makes him cheat a lot. His jealousy makes him start fights with perceived threats about Tom's affection. Tom doesn’t think he himself has the right to be jealous since he’s married and has no just claim to Stefan. It does bother him though and when they break up (which they do often and dramatically) he starts romancing other guys. It brings Stefan back in a heartbeat. They love each other madly and in the end what kills the relationship is not that Tom is recruited by the Reapers in ChHL and moves back to America, but it’s Stefan’s ultimatum―divorce Grace and get engaged with him, or lose him forever. Tom doesn’t choose Grace, he chooses Jessi and his son Noah that's been born by then. He doesn’t truly get over Stefan until more than a decade later when he falls as deeply in love again, although the love for Stefan never really dies. Tom’s heart doesn’t really know how to stop loving once it’s started.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And if you're not in the multi-fandom crowd, the OTP(s) hinted at here is Fassavoy/McFassy/Cherik. :)


	11. Dilemma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justin is a frequent guest and it's a problem for Tom. Tom struggles to keep up appearance in front of his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:**  
>  \- Mentions of past rape  
> (has been mentioned in chapter 2 of The Sexual Education of Sam Winchester too.)
> 
>  **Notes:**  
>  All the songs relating to The Depraved can be found on this Spotify [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/coplins/playlist/3vSFCWi5GYwEhkaRdkZor9). Although they don't appear in order (yet) and some won't be on Tom's personal playlist.

## Spring 2014

The Rainsborough Moore house is big. They bought it with the help of their parents when they got married at eighteen and Tom had just gotten drafted by a German team. It was a risky move that long since had paid off and they could have opted for upgrading to a bigger house. Instead they chose to renovate, letting the children grow up in the same place, having a stable home. It’s a two storey house with half the attic converted into an airy and light office for Grace. The whole attic wall on the office side is turned into a large triangular window. Tom never goes there unless Grace asks him to fix something. He feels it's important that everyone has a place they can withdraw to and feel secure. The same respect had been shown for the children since a relatively early age―if their doors were closed you knocked and waited to be granted entry unless they were under temporary disciplinary restrictions. (Grace had grown up with a high level of respect for integrity and privacy, Tom had not. He’d hated coming home from school to find that his father or mother had gone through his drawers or read his mail. Or knowing that they may enter at any time without warning. His room had felt like a jail, so they’d gone with Grace’s family’s views on this matter, freedom with responsibility.) The second storey holds the master bedroom, two bathrooms, Jessi and Noah’s rooms and five guest rooms, one of which used to be the kids’ playroom and one that double as a hobby room. They have a lot of guests staying overnight. Friends of their kids, and adults who drink a bit too much at parties the Rainsboroughs hosts. Tom would never allow a guest to drive home drunk and neither would Grace. 

Downstairs there’s a kitchen, a huge dining room only ever used for entertaining guests, a living room, and a bathroom. They normally eat in the kitchen, preferring the intimacy. There’s also a laundry room. Originally it had been placed in the basement, but they'd changed that when they renovated. 

The basement had been turned into “the den”. Most people would call it something stupid like “man cave”. While it was officially Tom's space and Grace rarely came down here he resented the term “man cave”. It sounded so undignified. 

The den consists of a big room, a smaller room, and a bathroom. It is fully converted into a proper living space with cream coloured walls and light maple hardwood flooring. The smaller room held a bunch of beanbags, a TV, and several game consoles. The kids had been welcome down here since their early teens (as long as they respected that this was dad's rooms and if he wanted peace and quiet he’d get that). He liked having them around. The big room held another big TV, a stereo, a couch, living room table, a pool table, and a fireplace. (Plus a safe where he currently kept his gun. There was another safe in the master bedroom upstairs.) The walls were covered with trophies and memorabilia from Tom's career. He spends most late evenings down in the den nowadays. Mostly he watches hockey (the interest doesn’t fade because he can’t play anymore) or listens to music. 

Today Grace had brought him along to help prepare for some fundraiser for the homeless. He’d helped toting tables and chairs until his knee was throbbing painfully and the skin around it felt hot and swollen to the touch while the rest of him was cold and clammy. He’d tried to hide how badly it hurt (he didn’t want to disappoint Grace by shirking work) but just like his coach once had, Grace saw through it and stopped him with a worried little wrinkle between her eyebrows. She’d thanked him for his help and sent him home with a peck on the cheek and a sympathetic squeeze of his hand.

Nobody was at home when he got home so he popped two painkillers, poured himself a glass of cognac, taped a cold pack to his knee and went down in the den. He owned a large collection of CDs but nowadays he didn’t listen to them, just hooked his phone to the sound system and put on a spotify playlist. He sipped his cognac and lay down on the couch, waiting for the pain to abate. He _hated_ the pounding in his leg that shot spears of pain down to his toes and up to his hip when it was this bad. A reminder that he could never play hockey professionally again. It was a relief to finally be off his feet. He used the remote to turn up the volume and mentally crawled into the music and lyrics.

* * *

“... _I have seen my perfect day_  
_I have watched it fade away_  
_You know I'm fighting to be real_  
_I haven't been a good friend_  
_For a long, long time_  
_You know I wasn't happy_  
_Behind the smile_ ”

Tom hears somebody coming down the stairs. By now he’s buzzed. His leg still hurts and he should have removed the ice pack but haven’t been able to muster the energy to move. He both wants company and desperately wants to be left by himself. “Hi, dad!” Jessi’s chipper voice calls from the stairs.

“Hi, pumpkin. You alone?”

“Hi, Mr. Rainsborough,” comes Justin’s voice as a reply to that question.

 _Splendid,_ Tom thinks sarcastically.

“No, Justin and Mary are with us. We’re going to play some Call of Duty,” Jessi replies and comes to lean on the backrest of the couch, looking down at him. The smile on her face falls when she sees the ice pack. “You okay, dad?”

“Overtaxed my knee toting tables around for the fundraiser. It’ll pass. You’ve eaten? There’s leftovers in the fridge.”

Justin comes to stand beside Jessi, leaning his elbows on the backrest. Today the streak in his hair is aquamarine and so is his eyes, proving that he indeed does wear coloured lenses. He gives Tom a smile, flashing those horrible (charming, fantastic, cute) dimples.

“No we’re good. We ate less than two hours ago at Mary’s. But then her mother got home and Justin…”

“I’m not welcome,” Justin deadpans with a sarcastic smile.

“So we figured we’d head over here instead,” Jessi finishes.

“Well, Justin. Our casa es su casa,” Tom says and is rewarded with another flash of dimples and the * _brrt, brrt, brrt_ * sound of his tongue piercing clicking rapidly against his teeth.

“Thanks, Mr. Rainsborough.”

The notes of the Matthew Sweet song fades into another and Jessi makes a suffering groan and looks heavenward. “ _Oh my god_! How can you listen to this crap?!”

“Hey!” Justin protests. “I own this album.”

“Huh. Maybe there is something wrong with you after all,” Jessi jokes and gives him a cheeky wink. Justin just grins. Jessi then stomps towards the smaller room (where the music isn’t as loud) to prepare the TV and game console.

Justin remains leaned against the couch and looks at the speakers as the first parts of the lyrics starts being sung. He plays unconsciously with his tongue piercing, flipping it in and out between his lips. Tom reaches for his glass on the table and takes a sip of cognac while watching the glint of silver and tongue repeatedly coming into view.

“ _I hate myself,_  
_for what I have done._  
_Give me a chance,_  
_and I’ll lay down and die._  
_Don’t want this any more,_  
_I’m ready to go._  
_Good bye to those who love me,_  
_I’m gone._  
_I’m going to hell, tonight…_ ”

Justin turns his face towards Tom again and Tom’s eyes dutifully jumps up to meet his eyes. He _really_ should watch where he rests his eyes, no matter how buzzed he is. “But really, Mr. Rainsborough… Skitzo Calypso isn’t exactly the kind of music I’d expect you to listen to,” Justin says curiously.

“Yes. They can’t sing for shit,” Tom concedes drowsily and wonders exactly how buzzed he is. Worse off than he thought or he wouldn’t be so honest.

Justin snorts in amusement. “So why do you listen to it?”

“Why do _you_ listen to it?” Tom counters with a smirk ( _smile for the audience_ ) and a pointedly raised eyebrow. He’s expecting some snarky sarcasm back but instead Justin looks unsettled and turns his head away. Tom reaches for the remote and changes the song to Thursday’s Child with David Bowie (more acceptable ‘dad music’ and less depressing.) This is not the time and place to call each other out on why they listen to songs about suicide. Tom wonders if the boy ever struggles with thoughts of taking his life too. Quite frankly, Tom wouldn’t be surprised if it was so. Just another reason for Tom to be careful with the boy and provide him with an ally and role model as best he can. And _stop_ looking at him lecherously. If he was a stronger man he’d take Justin aside one day and ask if he needed to talk. Give him an adult to confide in and help him cope. But he’s weak and rather avoid the boy for his own sanity. Small maggots of anxiety and guilt immediately starts crawling in his gut at the selfish thought. It’s not the christian thing to do to ignore someone in need of help. But maybe he’s just jumping to conclusions based on his own experiences and that unsettled look and averted gaze didn’t mean the boy was struggling with thoughts of taking his own life. He hopes so. He doesn’t believe it though.

“ _Thank you_!” Jessi yells and Tom sniggers. The first time his kids had walked in on him listening to this particular song on this playlist Tom had almost panicked. The lyrics in the music was too revealing. He’d been in pain then too and put the remote too far away to quickly turn it off but they had whined about the music genre rather than commenting on the lyrics so nowadays he didn’t bother switching. 

Noah and Mary comes down the stairs, says hello and continues into the smaller room to play but Justin remains with Tom. He stands there for a while then pushes himself away from the couch and walks over to look at the things hanging on the wall. “I remember this…” he says and reaches for a photo, hand hovering over it but not touching.

Some automatic part of Tom’s brain kicks him into action, makes him sit up, remove the now melted ice pack, grab his cognac, get up and walk over to Justin, hiding his limp. It’s a matter of respecting fans and other curious people, guests in his home who wants to know or talk about hockey. He stops behind (on a respectable distance) Justin to see what photo he’s looking at. It’s of him and a couple of teammates proudly holding up the ChHL Cup over their heads, grinning widely. Tom has happy tears in his eyes on the picture. He’s always had a penchant for crying easily for whatever reason. At least happy tears he doesn’t have to hide. He sips his cognac. “You were ten at the time, right?”

Justin turns his head to look at him with a little smile. “Yeah. Mom and dad watched all of your games whatever team you played in. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard dad say ‘ _I grew up with him, son,_ ’ like I’d somehow forget from the last time he said it.” Justin grins, eyes sparkling impishly. “I used to cheer for the other team just to spite them but this year,” he nods towards the photo, “it was so exciting to watch that I cheered along and when the Reapers won the Cup we celebrated all night. I got to stay up and when mom and dad drank champagne I got to have soda and candy for once.”

This was the part of being famous that continued to take Tom a bit by surprise even after an almost twenty years long career. He loved all aspects of playing hockey, competing to win, the sound of skates on the ice, teamwork, being freed from keeping up appearance, the strain in his muscles. He loved hearing the fans cheer the team on or chant his name after scoring a goal. But the part about how what he did on the ice impacted on other people he’d never even met still felt surreal. Even if it just was a ten year old getting to stay up late and have candy. The most humbling story he’d heard from a fan was from a woman who’d been fighting cancer this particular year and lacking a family she’d focused on her favourite hockey team, vowing to stay alive to see if the Reapers would win or not. She told him that it was what kept her going, reading interviews, watching games, and devoting her energy to her team, drawing strength from that. She’d won her battle too, and told Tom about it in a meet and greet. 

Most of the time he’s so caught up in his own life that he doesn’t think of the impact it has on total strangers. Hockey was something he did for his own sake. It was his hobby as much as his profession. It’s awe inspiring to be reminded that by devoting himself to something he loved he was part of giving strangers joy, hope and strength to get through hardship, or just a break from everyday strife.

“Well in that case my goal that night wasn’t for naught,” Tom jokes and winks at Justin. They’d won by 3 - 2 and Tom scored the first goal.

Justin chuckles. * _brrt, brrt, brrt_ * That bell bar would do a world of damage to the young man’s teeth if he kept that up. Tom wonders if that tongue ever keeps still and he shouldn’t be thinking of Justin’s tongue and what tricks it can perform. _Down, boy_ , he thinks to himself.

“What happened anyway? One year you took the Cup and two years later you fell a division,” Justin then asks, tilting his head curiously and turning to face Tom.

“Leadership,” Tom answers. “The team was sold, the new owners switched our coaches and all went to hell. Looking in the rear view mirror I’m glad though. I liked my teammates in the Ice Bears much better.” Not to mention that playing in a lower division had taken him to twin towns and thus given him the opportunity to see Sam. 

Justin looks back at the wall and points at another picture, asking a question that Tom answers, then he trails after Justin, answering his questions and sipping his cognac while the young man looks around. Tom’s slightly horrified to notice that the distance between them gets shorter and he’s not the one decreasing it. It gets worse when they’re at a part of the room where they can’t be seen from the smaller room where the others are. Justin’s body language turns flirty and deliberate. He holds Tom’s gaze longer than he should, looks at his lips, cants his hips, and does these little things with his tongue and piercing that has Tom wanting to just suck that provocative tongue into his mouth. Tom does a fairly good job of acting polite and oblivious to the come ons. He knows he does a good job because of the flashes of uncertainty in Justin’s eyes when Tom gives no reaction to increasingly less subtle flirtation. But it’s proof that Justin isn’t going to let go of what happened in the kitchen the other day.

Jessi’s music taste is what comes to Tom’s rescue. 

“Oh, no! Not the Willie Nelson song!” Noah whines loudly at the same time as Jessi squeals happily “Yes! Love this song!”

She comes bounding around the corner, eyes bright and determined set on Justin. “Dance with me, Justin,” she demands with a bright smile and tugs him to the middle of the floor.

“But your dad―!”

“He don’t mind,” she says while he obediently slides an arm around her waist and holds her other one to lead. He looks so overwhelmed Tom can barely hold himself from laughing out loud. Jessi is so much like her mom. Strong, enthusiastic, and determined to get what she wants. Just the fact that she shamelessly can demand a dance in front of friends and her dad without an excuse other than she likes the song speaks for how confident she is. It warms Tom’s heart that he has enough of his daughter’s trust for her to feel comfortable to do this in front of him, as full of joy at being alive as Tom is the opposite. He leans a shoulder against the wall and watches the two of them. Justin throws him a nervous glance but when he sees Tom smile encouragingly at them he relaxes and goes with it.

“ _I wish I didn't love you so_  
_My love for you should have faded long ago._  
_I wish I didn't need your kiss_  
_Why must your kiss torture me as long as this…_ ”

Justin leads her around the floor in slow circles, looking down on her with an amused and embarrassed smile while she smiles brightly up at him and Willie Nelson sings of a lost love he can’t get over. He hears Noah groan about how badly this song sucks and Mary giggle in response. He can’t see them from where he stands but they’re bound to see Jessi and Justin and he can imagine Noah rolling his eyes in exasperation.

Grace had been like this, a freight train of determination when Tom was screaming in internal panic. He was outwardly confident of course, and when it came to making friends, doing good in school and sports he had a hang on things. Knew how he was _supposed_ to act to make people believe he fit in. But courting Grace was tricky. He was shy around girls because he was supposed to be interested in them like everybody else but wasn’t, and shy around boys for the opposite reason. When he felt freaked out by meeting someone new he’d slap on a smile and offer his hand in greeting. He’d ask questions about the person to divert attention from himself. If he was listening he didn’t have to talk about himself and if he didn’t talk about himself then maybe people wouldn’t notice what a mess he was inside. When he talked to Grace outside of church for the first time (he’d seen her in school and church before that but never talked to her) she’d appeared shy too, but his self-defense mechanism brought her out of her shell. He liked her and offered her his arm to escort her to the pews where he greeted her parents before going to join his own parents. 

Looking back it’s a bit tragic that his parents pleased comments about what they witnessed (‘A good girl from a good family. You’d do well to court her, Thomas.’) had such a great influence in his choice to court her. Even more tragic that he’d done it to divert the interest from other girls and hide his own true interests as he had crushes on guys. They became great friends, had a lot of fun, and he actually enjoyed the hand holding, cuddling, and hugging her, but anything above that she was the initiator. Like the first kiss. He didn’t really mind kissing her. Not then and not now. It didn’t gross him out like sex with her did, nor did it turn him on. He grew to love her dearly. 

There’s a lot of things he finds tragic with their ‘romance’. Like how he’d proposed just days after his suicide attempt, trying to restore the family honour. Not that his attempt ever got known outside of his family. Grace knew though. His best friend. He should have broken her heart instead so she could have had a chance of falling in love with someone else. But looking at Jessi dancing he can’t bring himself to regret it. He feels guilty of course. But he’ll never regret Jessi and Noah.

The song fades away into the next―Chains by Nick Jonas (getting another comment by Noah from the other room about his shitty music taste)―and while Jessi doesn’t let Justin stop dancing she turns her head towards Tom. “Justin’s taking me to prom,” she announces.

“That’s okay, right?” Justin asks, also turning his head towards Tom nervously. All the provocative confidence in Justin is all for show, Tom decides. A defense mechanism different than Tom’s.

Tom smiles in amusement. “That’s for Jessi to decide, don’t you think?”

“I asked him,” Jessi says.

“Are you two dating?” Tom asks curiously. He hasn’t seen any indication of that except for this dance perhaps.

“No!” Both of them answers at the same time then promptly burst out laughing at each other. Justin lets go of Jessi’s waist and holds up the other arm for her to twirl a couple of spins underneath. “I mean this in the most respectful way, Sir,” Justin says but keeps his eyes fixed on Jessi. “Your daughter is gorgeous, anyone can see that. But we don’t feel that way about each other. We’re just really good friends.” He pulls her back in again with a dimpled smile.

Jessi giggles. “Exactly. That’s why I asked him, dad. I’m not interested in any of the guys at school and some of them kept nagging when I said no. And Justin won’t try to cop a feel or do anything I don’t want so I feel safe having him escort me. People at school thinks we’re together so I’m being left alone.”

“Nobody wants to mess with ‘ _the freak’s_ ’ girlfriend,” Justin adds, making a face that is half a contemptuous sneer, half an amused smirk.

An excited shout from Noah cuts the conversation short. “Jessi! Come look at this!” Jessi untangles herself and darts away as suddenly as she appeared, leaving Justin standing with a bemused smile.

Tom’s not ready to let go of the topic they just brushed though. He catches Justin’s gaze, walks over to the couch and sits down. Justin trails after him and leans against the back of the opposite side of the couch. “You having trouble with bullies in school, Justin?” Tom asks and sips his cognac, looking up at those aquamarine eyes made extra intense by the kohl underneath.

Justin doesn’t answer at once. There’s the sound of the bell bar being slowly dragged along the inside of his teeth while he considers what to answer. Then he looks away, shrugs a shoulder nonchalantly. “It’s not that bad. Some whispering in the corridors and the occasional shove from someone unseen. But most are okay and the rest don’t dare do anything.”

It sounds like an honest enough answer. “Why not?”

Justin meets his eyes again, biting his lip and clicking the bell bar against the lip ring on the inside of his mouth, drawing out the time before he answers again. “I got in a fight the first week I got here. I won.” His eyes holds challenge and he tilts his chin upward defiantly, like he’s expecting Tom to criticise him. Tom keeps his expression friendly and curious, refraining from smirking at the rebellious attitude that makes him appear younger than eighteen.

“What happened?”

Justin comes around to sit down in the opposite corner of the couch, putting his feet on the living room table and starts fiddling with the keychain looping down his pants, looking at it. “I was cornered by three guys who called me freak, satanist, and all kinds of shit. Nothing new. But they wouldn’t settle for throwing insults. One of em threw a punch and I defended myself.” He looks up at Tom. “Noah came to my aid but then the fight was nearly over. That’s how we got to know each other. We hadn't spoken before that. At first I thought he was gonna join _them_. Nearly clocked him,” he admits with a rueful smile. “Your son’s got guts. Not many would step in to break up a fight like that. Believe me, I _know_.”

Tom feels a proud warmth blossom in his chest mixed with gut clenching worry for his son. Doing the right thing could be dangerous and could just as easily have landed Noah with a knife in his stomach. “It’s the christian thing to do.”

Justin snorts and crosses his arms over his chest, looking at his sock clad toes and wiggling them. “Yeah, well. In this place everybody claims to be so goddam good christians, but very few actually adheres to the loving ways of Jesus,” he says with a bitter twist to his mouth. “I believe in God and Jesus as much as my parents, I just don’t interpret the good book the same way as they. As most people here. So they dragged me here to ‘set me straight’,” he says and does air quotes with an sarcastic eyeroll. He looks at Tom. “Jessi and Noah are great though. And I see where they get it from. Not many of my friends parents here are cool with me hanging out with their kids. Plus you’ve never giving me the ‘your body is a temple’ lecture… why’s that by the way?” he asks and tilts his head with a troubled little frown.

Not a bad question. The general view of the congregation is that body ornaments like piercings and tattoos are desecrations of the body God had given you. (Earrings on women was an exception for some reason.) It is frowned upon but tolerated to a mild extent. John’s cross is big enough to be scandalous to some. Justin’s sleeve… well.

“Have you ever been inside an orthodox church?” Justin shakes his head at Tom’s question. Instead of explaining Tom grabs his phone, googles ‘[orthodox church interior](https://www.google.se/search?q=orthodox+church+interior&safe=off&espv=2&biw=1920&bih=993&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjxhvqU4vbJAhWMhSwKHasSDOQQ_AUIBigB&gws_rd=cr&ei=tBV9Vo6qDMHoywOb057oAw#safe=off&tbm=isch&q=orthodox+church+inside)’, clicks images and hands the phone to Justin. “Those are temples too,” he says, the corners of his lips quirking into a smile. Justin eyes the pictures of the lavish interiors, filled with gold and icons and hands him the phone back with a thoughtful look.

“You been in one?”

“Yes. During my career I was rarely close enough home to visit our church, but I've tried to go to church at least once or twice a week. Any church holds a certain aura of spirituality that makes it easier to focus on prayers and your relationship with God rather than earthly matters. It’s of no importance to me if my fellow worshippers have a different perception of God's intentions. In the end we can't presume to know his will since we're not his equals, now can we?” Tom raises an eyebrow and sips the last of his cognac, placing the glass on the table. 

Justin has turned towards him, drawn one leg up underneath himself on the couch and is looking at him like he’s declaring gospel, which is just dumb. Tom's probably more confused about what God wants than anyone else. He clings to the paragraphs of the bible that says that you shall not judge in the feeble hope that maybe there's redemption for him too at the end. He doesn’t believe it. But the least he can do is try to keep others from suffering like he does and has done since childhood. 

“I do my best to be a good man and do what I think is right...,” he continues. 

_Lies. All lies. If I did my best I would have succeeded. I'm such a hypocrite. Weak and unwilling to repent. I've been a hypocrite since I broke my chastity vow at sixteen. I'm a bad man, Justin. Stop looking at me like I'm a saviour. I'd sell you out in a heartbeat if that's what it took to protect my children. And I'd take advantage of you offering yourself to me if I didn't risk getting caught._

Actually, he's not completely sure about the last thought. The way Justin responds to the simples shows of kindness and respect unsettles Tom. Despite the cocky and provocative attitude there’s something so very vulnerable about him, and not in a good way. He reminds Tom of himself before he left for Germany.

The contemptuous way his parents spoke about him nauseated Tom. Justin’s left without a good safety net, open to be preyed upon. So much like Tom himself had been at the age of sixteen when that coach had found him, raped him, and made him believe he deserved it. Made him come back for more because he was unable to say no or comprehend how big a wrong was being done to him. He’d even thought he’d wanted it but _oh_ , that had required some major thought twisting and self-lies on his part and it had taken the better part of his life to sort that mess out. He’s not sure he could bring himself to take advantage of Justin with that in mind, not after getting to know the boy. Not with the power imbalance between them. 

But he wants to and that’s enough.

_Be honest to yourself, Tom. The right time and place and I wouldn't hesitate._

“...and hopefully Grace and I did not raise bigots. God is about love, generosity, tolerance, and forgiveness. Who goes to Heaven and who goes to Hell is for God to decide and all we can do is try to make sure nobody suffers hell in life as well.” Tom really can’t stand the way Justin is looking at him now. He wishes he was a stronger man, a better man. Worthy of the admiration reflected in the young man’s eyes. But he isn’t. He smiles at the boy. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Justin. I’m going to head upstairs for a smoke and then get some sleep.”

He shuts off the music, grabs his empty glass and the icepack, bids the kids a good night, and flees upstairs. After putting the glass in the dishwasher and the ice pack in the freezer he wanders out to the swingset. It’s a good place to think and he has a lot of thoughts spinning in his mind. He sits down, lights a cigarette and looks up at the starry sky. He worries about Jessi and Noah. That Jessi would need a fake boyfriend to get her “no” accepted is appalling. Soon she’s off to college and have to brave the world all on her own, with all the extra dangers that came with being a woman. The things some guys will do… Tom shudders. He himself went to another country when he was younger than Jessi is now and he can only hope that Grace and he had helped prepare Jessi for all the dangers she would face.

That Noah will put himself in harm’s way without second thought scares the living shit out of him. He needs to hear Noah’s version of that too, he thinks. Not tonight. Some day. But what to tell him? Noah is well aware on their stance on violence. He’d done the same thing as Tom himself would have done. It’s different when your kids are involved. You want to lock them up and keep them forever safe. But that’d kill their spirits. There were no clear wrong and rights for parenting. Tom’s only guide was not to be like his own parents.

Tom closes his eyes and tilts his head upward, blowing out smoke.

“Mr. Rainsborough?”

_Great. Just the one I came here to avoid._

Tom turns his head to look behind him and gives Justin a friendly smile.

“Mind if I join you?” Justin asks tentatively. He’s holding a pack of cigarettes in his hand.

Tom gestures at the swing beside him. He does mind, but for selfish reasons. “Go ahead.” He offers Justin a cigarette from his pack.

“I’ve got my own, Sir.”

“I know. But if you’re going to smoke anyway you might as well take one from me. I’m willing to bet my economy is slightly better than yours,” Tom says with a wink and a quirk of the lip. He means to put the boy at ease but berates himself for coming on as ambiguously flirty. No matter. He’s a bit paranoid about his body language now when he's this buzzed.

Justin sits down on the swing and takes the offered cig with one of those killer dimpled smiles. “Thanks.” He pockets his own pack and lights the cigarette, swinging softly back and forth.

“I’m going to go ahead and point out that smoking is bad, _mmkay_?” Tom says (dutifully) in his best Mr. Mackey impression that always makes Jessi look suffering and sends Noah into embarrassed laughter.

Justin’s eyes goes wide in surprise then he doubles over laughing which is gratifying and puts a self satisfied smirk on Tom’s lips. He takes a pull on his cig, leans against the chain and watches the young man laugh. It doesn't matter if Justin's laughing at him or because he think's Tom's funny. Tom enjoys the reaction either way.

“Wow, oh. I’m sorry. The South Park reference caught me off guard. My parents don’t let me watch it,” Justin says as he collects himself. He takes a drag on his cig, blowing out the smoke sharply upward, eyes sparkling with mirth.

“But you do anyway,” Tom states. It’s hardly a question. Of course he does or he wouldn’t have caught the silly reference.

“Yeah. They’ve never managed to stop me from doing anything,” Justin answers, a defiant tone to his voice but still smiling and relaxed. 

_So you’re feeling safe with me. So very wrong of you. If you only knew the things I’ve fantasised about doing to you since you started visiting..._

“I bet you did exactly the opposite of what they told you to. Took the literature and television shows they forbade you to watch as a guideline as to what was good?”

Justin is full on grinning at him now, shoulders shaking in silent laughter. “Spot on, Mr. Rainsborough.”

“Mmh. I was a teenager once too. I know how it goes. I don’t believe it helps to shield my kids from the real world. Better they see it under supervision so I or Grace can explain it and help them sort wrong from right. God know what would happen if they ended up getting their view on sex from porn for example.” And why did he have to go and bring up sex when he’s leaned against the chain like this, side eyeing Justin with heavy eyelids and a smirk on his lips. His body language is _way_ too seductive for his own comfort. It’s not intentional. Painkillers and booze has him lulled into a much more relaxed state than usual.

Justin meets his gaze, the grin fades to a bit more uncertain smile and he takes another hit on the cig. “That’s smart. That attitude might have helped me. I…” he runs a hand through his hair and breaks eye contact, looking down on his shoes. “I knocked a girl up when I was fifteen,” he confesses.

Tom is relieved that Justin didn’t respond with flirting like he’d done earlier today. “You’ve got a child?”

“No. I mean. I was head over heels for the girl, Emma. Wanted to run away and marry her. But she didn’t want to have the child, none of us did, really. So I stole the 400$ needed for the abortion from my parents.” He looks up to see what reaction Tom will give to this.

“That’s why your parents brought you here?”

“No. They sent me to an all boys boarding school,” Justin says with a lopsided smirk.

“And the girl?”

Justin shrugs.

“So did you learn your lesson?”

“Which lesson is that?”

“Always use a condom.”

“No shit. Never go anywhere without them.”

“That’s good. I believe sex is meant to be had within the sanctity of marriage. But in this day and age it’s naive to think it doesn’t happen outside of it. You’ve got to be careful. It’s a matter of respect for your partner too.”

“Yes, Sir.” They smoke in silence for a while, looking out over the pool. Justin seems content with Tom’s lack of outrage. But what’s he supposed to say? About something that happened three years prior no less. He doesn’t want to begin to ponder over the topic of abortion. It’s too volatile. And Jessi felt certain Justin wouldn’t try to cop a feel. She knows him better than Tom, hanging out with him as often as she does. So Tom trusts in her judgement. In his eyes Justin comes off as a (though provocative) very respectful young man and he knows how much he himself needs people that don’t judge him for his mistakes. “You’re not like the other dads,” Justin says suddenly and looks at him.

Tom snorts. Judging by his conversation with John at the bar he probably is like many other dads.

“I’m serious. You’re laid back. And you listen to Skitzo Calypso,” Justin adds.

“Don’t judge me by that. It’s just one song. I was searching for a song by David Coverdale with the same name and found it. My usual poison is David Bowie and Rolling Stones.”

“That’s cool,” Justin offers with a smile, tongue flicking out to bend the bell bar so it catches between his lips. Tom inadvertently tracks the motion.

“You should tell Noah that,” Tom answers with a smile of his own. He needs to make his escape before his own staring gives him away so he dumps his cigarette in the water filled jar placed beside the swing set for this exact purpose. “I’m off to sleep,” he says and claps Justin on the shoulder. “You have a good night.”

“You too, Sir.”

He feels Justin’s gaze watch him as he walks away. The boy looks like sex on legs and Tom could have done without knowing the young man was already sexually active. His life isn’t easy. But then again, he doesn’t deserve easy…

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes:**  
>  The dynamics in the Rainsborough household is based very much on how I grew up (minus the religion).


	12. Men Can't Be Raped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback to one of Tom's first sexual experiences. Between the age of 16 to 18 Tom is raped repeatedly by a coach in an opposing team. It will shape his view of himself and sex for a long time, maybe forever. **STRONG WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER!! (This chapter can be skipped if you're sensitive.)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:**  
>  \- Victim blaming  
> \- homophobic language and slurs  
> \- degrading and rough sex  
> \- **RAPE**  
>  \- religious guilt  
> \- internalized victim blaming  
> \- coercion
> 
> **Notes:**  
>  Feel free to skip this chapter if you're squeamish.  
> Also, a boner/getting wet does not equal consent or wanting it. Sometimes our bodies react to touch whether we want it or not.

## 1992

Tom squeezes his eyes shut and leans his hands against the desk as ordered. His skin is burning with shame, and there's not a stitch on his body to hide the flush. The coach kicks the inside of his legs to make him spread wider. He doesn’t even know the coach's name. It’s the opposing team's coach and this is the second time this has happened. Now it's different though. This time the coach told him to come by his office after the game and now he's taking his time, paying attention to Tom’s body too. 

“You think crying’s gonna help you, Nancy boy?” the couch sneers and grips Tom's face, fingers digging in painfully. “Real men don't cry.” The coach spits in his face. “But you’re not a real man. Real men don't take it up the ass. You want me to tell your parents what a disgusting little abomination you are? I will.”

“Please, Sir! Don't. _Please_.” Tom doesn’t open his eyes. He can't. He doesn’t want to see himself reflected in those hateful blue eyes that saw him for what he was. 

A hand squeezes his dick and this is the worst part, because he's hard. He’s got a boner that proves that every single word that spills out of the coach's mouth is true. He whimpers as the hand starts stroking his shaft. “I'll keep your secret for you, faggot. As long as you don't tell anyone about this.” A finger strokes along the chastity ring on his finger. “I saw the pretty little cheerleader making doe eyes at you. Does she know what a gross piece of shit you are?”

Tom bites his lip, his body shakes from a sob. The sudden slap in the face makes him gasp. “Answer me you filthy cock muncher! Does she know how you choked on my cock and then begged me to fuck you?”

“No, Sir! She doesn't.” He'd rather die than let Grace know. Perfect, beautiful, kind, and funny Grace. He likes her so much. And he's tried so many times to get turned on by her like he should―thinking about her while jerking off, looking at her boobs when she’s in a bikini, anything to react like the other boys, but to no avail. Instead he'd get grossed out thinking about doing something like this with her. And he _likes_ her. He really does. That’s not something he fakes. And yet, trying to jerk off thinking about her he'll lose his erection. Thinking about John, Perry, Stephen, Jared, or Marcus on the other hand…

The coach seems to be reading his mind. “That’s just sick. You’re _sick_.” The hand on his dick speeds up and Tom's breath turns ragged. “And hung like a horse to boot. I bet you want me to suck you off?”

When he doesn’t answer fast enough he gets another slap on the cheek and it stings like hell. “Answer me, faggot! You want a real man like me to put that filthy homosexual horse dick of yours in my mouth? Tell me!”

“Yes, Sir. I want that.”

“Say it. Tell me what you want.”

“Sir, I want you to take my filthy faggot dick in your mouth.”

The coach chuckles darkly. “Good. Turn around, lay down on the desk, spread your legs and grab your ankles.”

Tom scrambles to obey. He’s scared shitless. If anyone finds out about this he’s doomed. He doesn’t think the coach will actually suck him off. He anticipates more humiliation and pain. He’s wrong. The sensation of a hot, wet mouth around his cock is _amazing_. His eyes fly open and he stares at the older man between his legs in awe. The coach's mouth is stretched wide around him and his tongue works the underside of the cock while he bobs up and down as far as he can go. “Dear Jesus!”

The coach's eyes snap up to his when he cries out, they're full of malicious pleasure. He pops off and chuckles. “Jesus has nothing to do with this, you sick fuck. Making an upstanding straight man like me suck your faggot dick. God can never love such a diseased creature like you, you get that, right? You want me to continue you keep God and Jesus out of this.” He opens a drawer in the desk while he speaks, taking out a bottle of lube and pops the lid open. “You want me to go on?”

“Yes, Sir. Please. I'm sorry, Sir.”

The coach dives back down, swallows as much as he can in one go and Tom's back arches off the desk. He almost lose his grip on his ankles. Tom can’t stifle his moans, but he does keep a lid on the blasphemy on the tip of his tongue. The coach has opened his fly and is jerking himself off with one hand, the other one is fiddling with the lube. Before Tom has a chance to react two cold fingers pushes into his hole. He cries out in pain and tries to squirm away but the coach crocks his fingers and _OH GOD!_ He can't really discern pleasure from pain any more. He’s crying, sobbing from pain, shame, guilt, pleasure and arousal. He wishes it would stop, that the coach would leave him be. But that _can't_ be true since he has an erection and is nearing orgasm with every brush of his prostate and the suction on his dick. He _must_ want this. The ‘NO!’ deep down in his core and the feeling that this is wrong is lying. Of course it feels wrong. It _is_ wrong. And you can't get a boner unless you want it, can you? 

Tom comes with a wordless cry, despite a third finger being shoved inside of him. Limp and dazed he barely registers that the fingers are pulled out (his hole is throbbing painfully anyway) and that the coach climbs up on the desk on all fours above him. Not until his face is grabbed, fingers digging in by his jaws forcing his mouth to open. The coach hovers his face over Tom's and spits Tom's load of come straight into his mouth. It’s pure humiliation. It doesn’t taste bad though and he finds the thought of the man's spit in his mouth more gross than his own seed. His mouth is forced shut and his nose pinched, making him swallow. “Showing your true colours now, you disgusting cumslut. That’s what you are. Say it!”

Tom can’t make himself. A hard slap that makes his ear ring rips it out of him. “ _I'm a cumslut!_ ”

“Yes you are. And you want me to fuck you. Beg for it.”

He does. God help him, but he closes his eyes and begs, just wanting it to be over. He's manhandled to lie on his stomach and told to hold his ass cheeks apart. The rough fingering from earlier is a blessing as it turns out. It doesn’t hurt even half as bad as it did the last time when the coach puts on a condom and pushes in. The coach keeps talking. Threatening to expose what Tom is, saying how it would be best if all gays like him would just kill themselves instead of go around flashing innocent blues and looking all-American-perfect so men like the coach had to punish them. He says he isn’t fooled, paws at Tom's dick and changes his angle so he once again starts hitting the prostate. He turns less rough then, leans down and nibbles at the knob of Tom's spine, licks his neck and pinches his nipple lightly, teasingly. Tom's devastated by the fact that he’s getting hard again. Everything the man says about him _must be true_. Despite the repulsion and humiliation. Why else would his body react this way? The coach laughs evilly and speeds up again before his pace gets erratic and he comes with a groan. He pulls out, tugs the condom off and pours its content on Tom's back. “Next time you come here directly after the game if you want me to keep your secret.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Now get your ugly fag ass out of here. I can't stand to look at you for a minute longer.”

Tom scrambles for his clothes and flees to the showers. He scrubs himself raw and then sits under the spray, crying. It takes him three hours before he stops crying. Longer to make himself look presentable again.

* * *


	13. The Dumb Things We Do When Drunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom has now been home for a longer consecutive time period than he ever has before since he left for Germany at 18. It's wearing on him but he has a few things that keeps him afloat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:**  
>  \- excessive drinking
> 
> **Notes:**  
>  I feel I need to comment on the story after this chapter. I know a good writer shouldn't have to explain their story or things in it but this is a topic that lies close to home for me so I want to anyway. Those comments are at the end of this chapter not to be spoilery.
> 
> Also, there's a eeny teeny tiny spoiler to the next Volatile Chemistry chapter in this chapter. But it's not big enough to actually spoil anything and I can tell you that this is a good thing that I'm writing the Depraved because I can feel the next chapter in VC finally take shape where I've been stumped up until now.

## Summer 2014

He spends a lot of time on the shooting range. Too much time probably, but what else is there to do? It’s meditative and so, _so_ seductive. He tackles his new hobby with the same discipline and dedication he once reserved for hockey. _Practise, practise, practise._ Bennett―the manager―makes a point of spending some time with Tom every time he stops by. Bennett really is a massive fan. He knows more about Tom’s career than Tom does, having memorised stats and games like it was his purpose in life. The pride Bennett feels about coming from the same town as a ChHL star knows no bounds and who is Tom to deny him that? Bennett lets him try shooting with all kinds of guns and rifles they’ve got at the range plus from Bennett’s own (massive) collection. Tom appreciates that but in the end he prefers his own Colt. He still hates the vile purpose of the instrument in his hands and all it represents―selfishness, murder, theft, revenge, self-righteousness. 

And yet. 

He empties his head of everything but the target, checks his stance, his grip firm on the gun and softly squeezes the trigger. He’s gotten a lot better at this. His arms absorbs the recoil so the gun barely moves and is ready to be fired again without losing much aim. Rinse and repeat. The cold smell of ice and the stink of sweaty hockey gear and locker rooms has been replaced by muffled bangs and the smell of gunpowder, metal, and gun oil. This has become his new safe space, but unlike the ice he doesn’t feel at home here, and as welcoming as the atmosphere and the regulars here are, they’re not his kind of people. Frankly, quite a lot of them have opinions he finds downright abhorrent. Just listening to some of the things they say makes him feel soiled and dirty. He puts on a polite smile anyway, doesn’t engage any discussions of gun control or other volatile topics where his opinion differs from the rest, and keeps his head down. Most seem to think his polite silence is a sign of agreement, which makes him well liked.

He senses someone behind him and finishes his round, then hits the button that will retrieve the target to him. He turns around while removing his ear muffs to see John standing there smiling at him. “You’ve gotten good. But when did you start using man shaped targets?”

“About a week or two ago I think. I vary.” Tom is usually here before noon when John works so they don’t run into each other as often as Tom would have liked. There’s a whir and a click that announces that the target has come to a stop on this end of the rails it’s mounted on. John looks at it over Tom’s shoulder.

“Every bullet in the head… someone must have pissed you off big time. Who’re you shooting at?”

Tom grins. “Me.”

John raises his eyebrows and gives him a you’re-not-serious-right?-look, so Tom shrugs, still smiling, and corrects himself. “The devil in me. My demons and doubts in God.” There’s a man that frequents this range who has a black 1911 with a silver cross on the grip. Tom thinks it’s beautiful and the ultimate abomination. God and Jesus stands for love and forgiveness, for turning the other cheek. A gun stands for the polar opposite. 

Tom wants to own it. 

John looks relieved. “Oh. You had me worried there for a while.”

Tom claps him on the shoulder. “Don’t be. If I wanted to put a bullet in my head I wouldn’t need long range practise now would I?” he says and winks with a cheeky grin. Like it’s a joke. It isn’t.

He’s settled into something like a routine. He gets up in the morning the same time as Grace. Eats breakfast along with her while reading the newspaper and listening to whatever plans Grace has made for him for the day if she has any. Then she heads out or up to her office and he pops a painkiller or two. It isn’t exactly advil he’s taking but he can’t muster an ounce of care. After that he goes out to sit in one of the lounge chairs by the pool to smoke a cigarette and finish his coffee. Noah usually is awake by then and will join him, not bothering to hide that he’s got his own cigarettes. Jessi usually comes to scold them for smoking and to take a morning dip, swimming a couple of lengths. Summertime the Moore Rainsborough household is the prime hangout for Jessi and Noah’s friends, so often enough they’ve had friends overnight and Tom will remain by the poolside for a while, listening to their happy chatter and poolside games. He only talks with them if they talk to him first. Justin stays over most frequently of his children's friends. While he doesn’t seem to have problems making friends among his peers, most parents don’t welcome him into their home due to his deviant looks and he avoids his own home as much as he can. He’ll swim lengths rather than play in the pool. Sometimes Tom can’t take his eyes off him, sometimes he’ll leave early to avoid being there when Justin finishes. If he doesn’t Justin will be a little shit, trying to coax a reaction out of him.

Thing is, Tom has noted, _everybody_ stares at Justin around here. ‘Keeping an eye on him’ as they say. The adults that is. Tom supposes the kids get their bellyful while hanging out. When Tom doesn’t watch Justin like a hawk his behaviour stands out more and the main objective is not to stand out. So that’s why he’s free to watch Justin like he does in the middle of a group of kids without anybody suspecting he desires the kid. If he’s still there when Justin finishes Justin will heave himself up on straight arms right in front of Tom, flexing muscles, hovering, staring straight at him with calculating challenge in his eyes, a cocky smirk on his lips. He’ll bite his lip or play with his tongue stud in the seam of his lips or something equally provocative that people think is just part of his personality and doesn’t seem to get it’s part of a seduction act when it’s directed at Tom. (Tom has noted the difference, though. Seen him do the same thing towards girls.) 

By then the painkillers have hit and dulled Tom’s senses enough that he doesn’t have to worry about getting half hard from the tease directed at him. He keeps his face indifferent, tiny quirk upward of his lips and gives the boy a comment on his performance. ‘Nice work’, or ‘a bit slow today. Late night yesterday?’ or something like that. Tom does his best to look aloof, disinterested, and sometimes slightly mocking depending on how provocative Justin’s being. Justin may hide his feelings but not as well as he think. Every time he fails to coax Tom into revealing any interest there’s a flicker of insecurity, frustration, uncertainty, or disappointment. Tom is fairly certain Justin isn’t sure that Tom is gay/bi but tries to get it confirmed. Tom however is 110% sure Justin is bi. He’s been in this game long enough to know what to look for. It’s not about having a ‘gaydar’, it’s about reading micro expressions. And watching Justin look at some of his male friends when they aren’t looking has eradicated any doubts Tom may have had about misreading the boy.

After lounging by the poolside Tom heads for the shooting range, then hits the gym. He’ll more often than not stop by the church on his way home. He’ll sit by himself and pray silently for a while before going home and take on whatever duty awaits. Good days there’s only dinner to make and eat with the family, bad days they’re hosting some form of gathering, going out to a party, a church activity, or visiting his or Grace’s parents. It’s like being on a PR tour. Smile for the cameras, give the right answers in interviews, be kind to fans and write autographs, except now he’s acting for the congregation and representing his family’s reputation and not his team. After dinner or when they come home Tom pops another painkiller or two then goes to the den. If he’s alone he’ll start the fireplace, pour some whiskey, write a letter to Sam, burn it. He’ll reminisce over days spent with Sam―so few, yet so precious. Then he’ll plot his suicide. Funny really that planning his own death is what keeps him alive some days. He’ll watch old hockey games, sometimes his own, sometimes Freeville games―the latter mostly late at night if he’s not sleeping in his bed with Grace. Then especially he watches the last twin town derby and the interview afterwards where Sam mentions Tom covertly and his heart aches with longing for his kid. 

Some nights he’s alone at home and then he’ll put on music and allow the full force of his feelings hit him―sorrow, pain, hopelessness, guilt, self-loathing. There’s an anger underneath pushing to get to the fore. It hasn't been there before and he feels guilty for feeling it. Nevertheless he feels it. He’s begun to question it all, feeling that it's unfair that he has to endure hell on earth when he’s going there when he dies. He sometimes rebels, feeling that he deserves better. He doesn’t. He _knows_ that. He has no right and so many have it worse. People are homeless and starving. He has no right to complain. He’s got great kids, money in the bank and a nice house. He’s had a good run. He’s just having trouble accepting that it’s over. The anger, suppressed as it is, makes him waspish at times. The best days are those John comes to his rescue one way or another. Grace approves of their friendship. She and Cathy are friends and John is frequently roped in to help with church activities too. Days like today on the range when John’s there to lighten his darkness are good days. 

“True. Speaking of, have you signed up for the local shooting competition yet?” John asks.

Tom bends his head and shakes his head with a faintly amused smile. “No. I’d be up against folks that’s been doing this all their life. I’d have no chance. How about you? You competing?” he asks and looks up at John again.

“No. I just like to fire off rounds. I don’t care much for getting in a good hit. But you’ve been practising zealously. I think you stand a chance to place. Besides, I remember how you were during gym class. You _enjoy_ competing.” John turns on his charm, a mix of the salesman and the womanizer in him coming to a fore. “Come on, Tommy. Sign up. It’ll be good for you. I’ll come with and cheer you on,” he coaxes and gives Tom a playful little slow mo shove on the shoulder with his fist. “If it goes badly we’ll go out and drown our sorrows together afterwards,” he adds with a mirthful twinkle in his warm brown eyes. 

Tom grins at him, hating how he gets a bit warm and fuzzy inside. “It’s this Saturday, right?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. I’ll do it. But only if you promise to come along,” Tom agrees, allowing himself to be led around in a mental collar by John’s charm.

“Right on!” John throws an arm around his shoulder and starts leading him towards the lobby to get him signed up. Tom berates himself for feeling so pleased, enjoying the touch too much. But at least he feels _something_ other than a gaping hole of darkness.

* * *

He _needs_ to get laid. He’s too damned starved for both companionship and touch, it’s ridiculous. It’s stupid beyond reason how it makes him act. 

_And lets choke it down to ‘male bonding’, shall we?_

John drops the act of the strict man he shows to the public more each time they hang out. The more time he spends with John the more he’s reminded of how John was back in high school. The rebel who wore a leather jacket and smoked, who charmed girls and had a scarily good throwing arm. They had gym class together and Tom had once popped a very awkward boner in the shower because of John. Somehow he had managed to stutter some silly explanation about having seen Maise in the shower and thinking about it. He _had_ walked in on the girl in the shower the week before, he just didn't care. But John lathering himself up on the other hand…

Tom turns his head to look back at John standing in the audience. It’s a pleasant bother that he’s developing a slight crush on his friend. Nothing major. It’s always a bother to get stuck on a straight guy but in this particular case it's probably for the best. You don’t shit where you eat and wooing a guy in the congregation would definitely be doing just that. However, as good friends as they're becoming it's safe to skirt the line of flirting. 

He catches John's gaze, smirks and winks. He gets an encouraging smile and a thumbs up in return. Just like he told Sam once he performs at his best when he’s trying to impress someone. He turns back and checks his stance, empties his head of everything but the target…

* * *

“Third place! And he's only been shooting for a couple of months,” John brags as proudly as if he's the one who'd gone up against experienced shooters and beat them. He’s got one arm around Tom’s neck and the other one is patting Tom’s chest while he’s directing his attention at the two women beside them by the bar disk. They’re beautiful the both of them. (He’s gay, he’s not blind.) One’s got ebony skin and her afro hair is cropped short. The other one’s of hispanic origin, both looking to be classy, successful women out for a little fun. Tom’s not the only one who needs to get laid, John does too, so Tom is the willing wing man. He grins and bends his head down as if he’s shy/proud/embarrassed, looks up at the women through his lashes. Flirting with women is a mechanical thing. He knows how he’s supposed to be doing it (really, it’s the same way as with guys), but have to remind himself to do it, school his body language as carefully as he has to school himself _not_ to do it with men. He has an arm around John’s midriff “for balance” (Hah!) which seems legit enough considering how drunk they are. 

John certainly doesn’t mind and don’t seem to notice that Tom is a bit more clingy than is suitable. Screw suitable. They’re out of sight from anyone from the congregation and to the less strict eyes of the world they’re just “Bros being bros” (double Hah!). Well. To John’s eyes too. But Tom’s just shamelessly taking advantage of the situation to get some physical closeness to someone he likes, feeling every one of John’s touches burn through his clothes and linger like scorch marks on his skin below. Screw sex. If he could convince John that it’d be a good (and completely heterosexual) idea to get a motel room and sleep cuddled up with each other he’d be a happy camper. Not that he’s going to try. He may be drunk― _way_ past buzzed by now―and his inhibitions lower with each drink, but he’s not completely stupid. A lifetime of keeping up appearance still helps him hold on to the role he’s playing.

There are of course blips of recklessness during the night. When Tom in his drunken state just throws caution overboard without a care in the world. Lots and lots of alcohol will do that. You’re reduced to a total state of here and now. (Hence it’s a _really_ good thing that Tom’s gun is locked in at the range with Bennett’s private collection. Even if he actually feels rather happy at this particular moment there isn’t much restraint between impulse and action and a stray thought would be all it took to make him bite a bullet.)

The women, whose names Tom can’t remember for the life of him, have warmed up to his and John’s enthusiastic flirting. They’ve moved to one of those small round tables you have to stand around, the women side by side and John side by side. Tom’s not sure which one John’s interested in and which he’s supposed to be courting. Probably the dark skinned beauty with her amazing almond shaped black eyes and mile long lashes. She’s standing closest to him so it seems prudent to think it’s the intended pairing for the evening. She’s movie star perfect, right up there with Lupita Nyong’o, Tom thinks. Plush lips painted red, perfect pearly white teeth and a smile that really lights her up from within. Her beauty puts even Grace to shame, and not a trace of white washing that messes up the look of so many beautiful black girls. It’s a shame she doesn’t do much for him even though he finds her very pleasant to look at and talk to.

Somehow they’ve gotten onto the topic of seduction. Who cares how and why. Tom takes another sip of his drink. (What are they drinking? Long island? Cuba libre? He can’t keep up.) “No, no, _no_ ,” he cuts into the conversation, waving his hand dismissively. “That’s not how you do it. You want your partner to really _feel_ that you want them, need _them_. Make them feel how special they are. And they are. If you’re interested in them, they _are_. No matter if it’s for life or just for the night.” Another sip of alcohol. “They’re what keeps you afloat. They’re wonderful and, and, beautiful in every way. And they’re granting you an honour by letting you touch them, kiss them, share a moment of intimacy in an otherwise cold and unforgiving world. And, and, you’ve got to let them know that. There. I’ve said it.” Another sip and waving down a waitress for more.

The women giggle in delight at his drunken ramble and John laughs. “And how on earth would you convey all _that_ short of going down on one knee and declaring poetry?” he asks in amusement.

“Piece of cake,” Tom states cockily.

“Really? Prove it,” the hispanic woman (Carmen? Was it Carmen?) challenges with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

“Yeah, Tommy boy. Prove it,” John echoes with a smirk and _oh boy_ he shouldn’t have done that.

“Alright,” Tom agrees, bowing his head, amused smirk playing on his lips. “You asked for it,” he warns with a side eyed glance at John. He straightens up, throws a wink at ‘his’ dark beauty (Adaeze? Adede? Adisa?) and turns towards John. John’s eyes goes round when he steps in close but he doesn’t move away. Tom locks gaze with John’s warm brown (currently apprehensive) eyes and lets his face go earnest, allowing his affection and inward suffering shine through. It will look like great acting skills under these circumstances. He can feel the anticipation radiating from the women. He lets his eyes trail over John’s face, raises a hand and brushes a strand of hair from his forehead. John’s nostril flares and he tenses up the moment Tom’s fingers touch his face, his eyes flick nervously towards the women. There’s no help to be had there. They’re watching with avid and gleeful exhilaration. Tom can see John visibly steel himself and look back at him. Some slightly sadistic part of Tom wants to laugh. 

He trails two fingers tenderly down John’s face, following his jawline and looking at his fingers, keeping his expression as tender as his fingers. He rests his fingers crooked under John’s chin, runs his thumb over his lower lip. John sucks in a breath and holds it. Tom can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows nervously. Tom’s heart flutters excitedly in response. He looks at John’s lips. “I want you to kiss me,” he says and looks up to meet John’s wide eyes. “...Kiss me until I forget how terrified I am of everything that’s wrong in my life,” he adds, pouring every ounce of sincerity he can muster into the words, eyes bleeding out the desperation that haunts him daily, pleading with John to save him. His eyes then flicks down to John’s lips again and he can see John’s pulse jumping on his throat. Tom licks his lips and leans in, parting his lips slightly. He stops mere centimeters away, having no intention of following through to begin with (you don’t go around kissing people against their will no matter how much you want to) but his own heart starts beating madly because John’s reaction to him leaning in for the kiss―despite every other sign of freaked out panic―is to automatically part his lips in response, preparing to receive him. Tom hovers for a beat fighting the urge to close the distance.

“Oh my god, don’t stop!” Carmen exclaims excitedly when it becomes apparent Tom’s not actually going to kiss John.

“Dear Lord, that was _hot_. I’m ready to have both of y'all's babies,” Adede adds with a little laugh and fans herself.

Tom laughs and steps away, John lets out a shaky breath. Tom turns his attention to the women. “Told you so,” Tom says self-confidently and directs a smug smirk John’s way before he takes Ad- _whatever-her-name-is_ ’s hand and places a kiss on it, meeting her eyes with a playful glint in his own. She smiles at him and laces their fingers together.

“ _Jesus Christ_!” John says shakingly and lets out a relieved laugh. “For a moment there I thought you were actually going to do it.” He claps Tom on the shoulder and gives a squeeze. It’s a relief. John would have let him do it and that has Tom’s heart still pounding hard in his chest, but even in this drunken state he’s not fooling himself. John would have let him do it because he’s a friend of John, because John trusts him and can’t imagine Tom would willingly hurt him. He would have let him because of the pressure provided by the women’s excitement and because not letting him would mean getting aggressive towards Tom and you don’t hurt people you care for―you let them hurt you.

Tom’s seen straight guys do the kiss-trick a couple of times. Men, secure in their sexuality and considering kissing a buddy just means to an end, a way of getting their female audience turned on. With the right girls it worked like a charm. (Carmen and Adisa obviously being the right kind of girls.) Of course, they would be more like ‘ _C’mere, bro_ ’, kiss, then to the girls ‘ _There. We did it. Your turn._ ’. They never put the whole seduction move on their buddy like Tom just did. He grins impishly at John. “Oh come now. I would never do something like that to you without you asking for it. And if I had done it _you’d_ be the one wanting to have my babies,” he says jokingly. “I’m that good,” he adds vaingloriously and wiggles his eyebrows, causing everyone to laugh.

“It’s a shame you didn’t,” Carmen says. “It would have been so _hot_.”

“It would have been a grievous sin against God,” John protests with a bemused grin.

Carmen leans closer to John and drags a finger over his hand. “Hon, I thought sinning was the goal this evening…” she says with a smirk and a meaningful look, telling him he was definitely going to get lucky tonight.

* * *

He’s too drunk and wants to get even drunker. If he could be this drunk every day all of the time life would be bearable, rather pleasant even. Even if it lands him in seriously fucked up situations. Because he is currently making out. With Adeaze. Fair enough, he’s probably even drunk enough to get it up for her, just thinking about Sam, or John, or even that gorgeous, provocative little shit Justin. It’s just absurd that he’s cheating on Grace _with a woman_. True, they’re just kissing outside of the bar. He’s got one hand cupped around her neck and one resting on her lower back, stroking her spine with his thumb. They’re not tearing clothes and humping each other or anything like that. It’s pleasant. Nice. Not arousing, but really nice to feel someone’s lips against his own, tasting someone’s tongue. He’s got no idea where John and Carmen are. They disappeared about thirty minutes ago.

Adaeze breaks their kiss. “Come home with me,” she offers, slightly breathless.

He smiles at her and strokes her cheek. “I’m married. I can’t.” She already knows. Both he and John have their wedding bands on and wives have been mentioned. He kisses her again because it’s nice. It’s real effing nice. He could do this all night. Just kiss. It wouldn’t take much for her to convince him to come with her if it meant he could keep kissing her.

“Nobody has to know. I won’t tell,” she says and then they’re kissing again. He slides his hands along her waist, feeling the soft curve of her hips, grips her ass and tugs their groins together, eliciting a little moan from her and it's all wrong. He doesn’t want that part. He's drunk enough to fake it but he knows how molested he'll feel come morning. How sullied and dirty he'll feel. It'll be worse since it isn't his wife. He'll be adding burden to stone and it isn’t worth it just to kiss.

He breaks the kiss again and gives her a sad smile. “ _I_ would know. You’re a breathtakingly beautiful woman and I’m sorely tempted. But this is as far as my conscious will allow me to go. I’d feel too bad about it tomorrow if I follow through tonight while I’m drunk. If I was sober it’d be different. I’d know I’d stand for the choices I make.” Sounds better than saying ‘I’m strictly into dick.’

She smiles back at him, soft and beautiful, ebony perfection with black eyes. “You’re a good man, Tom.”

He chuckles. “Not very convinced you’re right about that, considering what we’re doing right now,” he says with a smirk, cups her cheeks and kisses her again. He’ll keep kissing her for as long as he can. He needs more ‘nice’ in his life. Sleeping in the same bed as Grace has turned horrible. The wall of ice between them is so cold he can physically feel it. At least Adaeze is warm and welcoming.

He hears John and Carmen coming from behind, both laughing. He and Adaeze (he’s pretty sure that’s her name) turns their heads towards the sound. John and Carmen look flushed and disheveled. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what they’ve done. 

_Yes. I’m a good wingman,_ Tom thinks with satisfaction.

“You missed out, John. Your friend Tom’s just as good at kissing as he bragged about,” Adeaze says.

“Of course I am,” Tom agrees smugly, lacing his fingers together behind her back but looking at Carmen and John. “I wasn’t bragging, I was stating a fact.” He revels in the laughter it causes from the company.

“Poor me,” John says sarcastically and nuzzles Carmen.

“You ditching me, John? Need a cover?” Tom asks. If John decides to go home with Carmen he’ll take a cab to the nearest city he decides. John can claim they were together all night and they can meet up in the morning and come home together, lending credibility to the lie. 

“Nah. I’m good, man. Bros before―”

“ _Don’t say it,_ ” Tom warns.

“―beautiful, enchanting, gorgeous women,” John ends the sentence sheepishly.

Both women laugh. “Nice save,” Carmen says and gives John a light slap on the arm.

They hail down a cab and say goodbye to the women. 

“Hey, can I crash at yours? If I come home like this there’s going to be war and I feel too good to be fighting tonight,” John asks in the cab.

“‘Course. You’re always welcome at ours. Might be for the best. You’ve got lipstick on your neck.”

“Shit.” John digs up some napkins from his pocket and they help look each other over for incriminating evidence, Tom having to rub lipstick off his lips. A problem you don’t have when you’re with guys. No makeup, and no one raises an eyebrow if you come home smelling like aftershave. They’re both giggly in the stupidly drunk way. Tom has a high alcohol tolerance. His speech gets more drowsy, eyes red and eyelids heavy, he talks more and has much, _much_ lower impulse control, but his vocabulary remains pretty unchanged. He rambles rather than slurs. It’s a blessing and a curse. 

John suddenly chuckles to himself and shakes his head.

“What?” Tom asks with a bemused smile.

“Nothing. S’ just. You’re still the same. Back in high school you also championed the girls’ honour. Never letting guys say call em shit or say shit.”

“What? I did not.”

“Yeah, you did. Like tonight. Bros before hoes is just an expression but not to you. I respect that. It’s good, you know. ‘S real good. Means there are other guys like you out there and they’ll be championing our daughters when they’re off to college this fall. Bet Noah’s a chip off the old block too.”

“God, I hope so. But I wasn’t like that in high school, was I? Really?”

“Yeah. Remember when we were seventeen and you got an awkward boner in the shower?”

“Jesus Christ almighty! You have to bring that up? Of course I remember. Total mortifying humiliation is hard to forget.” Tom shoves at John for mentioning it, cheeks aflame. The last thing he wants is the origin of that boner to remember it.

John just laughs. “But ‘ts a good example. We all gathered round to ask questions about, what was her name? Maise? A fine looking girl. Wanting to know what she looked like naked. And that asshole Jordan cracked a joke about fucking her, whether she wanted to or not. And _you_ , man you should have seen you. All indignant rage, butt naked puffin yourself up for a fight. Telling him that if he ever made another rape joke you’d tear his insides out. Then looking at us and saying it went for all of us, delivering a lecture about how girls weren’t objects but deserving our respect. It was goddam beautiful.”

“I did that?” Tom asks, eyebrows climbing towards his hairline in surprise.

“You don’t remember?”

“Shit no. I just remember how mortifying it was getting that boner and trying to stutter my way through an explanation,” Tom chuckles.

“How can you not remember? I remember being nervous you’d single me out for a scolding. I was so surprised you never did.”

“Why would I do that? Because you broke your chastity vow?”

“I didn’t actually. Why’d you think I was in such hurry to get married?” John says with a laugh. “I made out with a lot of girls though. Thought you’d get mad about that.”

“No. No, as I remember they were all over you, and you never spoke badly about them or bragged. There was no reason to get upset. I’m surprised you even remember what I was like. I didn’t think I even registered on your radar. You were that cool rebel. Always doing your own thing. I envied you and wanted to be like you. I wanted to hang out with you but didn’t dare approach.”

John doubles over laughing, slapping Tom on the thigh. Tom laughs too because John is laughing and that makes him happy, but he’s not sure what’s so funny.

“Oh, _man_. If I’d known. Of course I remember you from back then. You were the uncrowned king for God’s sake. Dating the most beautiful girl in school, great at sports, helpful and well liked. I wanted to get to know you better but I didn’t think _I_ registered on _your_ radar.”

Well. That was news.

* * *

The kids are awake and sitting around the pool with a bunch of friends. Tom and John waves hi to them but keeps away since they’re drunk. Grace meets them by the door, takes one look at Tom and curtly informs him he’s sleeping in the den tonight. Tom had anticipated that and just grins an affirmative before she wanders off to her attic office. Turns out all the guest rooms are occupied by the kids’ friends so they tote an extra mattress downstairs. John stays downstairs to make the bed while Tom provides him with a bottle of whiskey and goes outside to smoke. Too drunk to care where the smoke goes he stands in the open door, leaning his shoulder against the door post, one leg slung in front of the other.

“Mr. Rainsborough.”

_Here comes sex on legs,_ Tom thinks dryly to himself and turns his head to look in the direction of Justin’s voice. He smirks. “Justin. What you doing wandering off from the herd. Don’t you know it’s dangerous lurking in in the dark at night.” _...when there’s monsters like me about._

He’s wearing a black tanktop straining against that alluring swimmer torso of his. He’s told Tom he used to swim for the school team in his last school, but isn’t allowed to here because of his tattoos. Which is absurd and pisses Tom off. Justin doesn’t care. He’s not in it to compete he said. He just likes to swim. He can do that here so he’s content. Tom’s not, but Justin specifically asked him not to make a fuss at school, so he doesn’t. Today he’s wearing a regular pair of jeans which, wow, he should just burn all those baggy monstrosities he usually wears because like this? _Phew_. A man could get hot and bothered for less.

“I saw you come in and wanted to say hello,” Justin says and fiddles absentmindedly with his key chain.

“I bet you did, you little delinquent,” Tom chuckles and takes a hit on the cigarette, eyeing the young man with self-deprecating humour.

“You’re drunk. I’ve never seen you drunk before,” Justin says with a little smile and tilts his head curiously.

Tom chuckles again, smoke escaping from his mouth, and shakes his head. Trust the young ones to call you out on your shit. “And that’s exactly why you should have stayed with the pack. You’re not supposed to see me from my bad side. But you want to see what kind of drunk I am, don’t you?” He takes another hit on the cigarette.

* _brrt, brrt, brrt_ * Justin’s lips tugs in amusement. “You got me. That’s pretty much it, Sir,” he concedes and steps into the light spilling out from the open door.

Tom’s smile falls from his face when light spilling from the doorway bleeds colour to Justin’s face. He scowls when he sees Justin’s eyes. He’s wearing yellow lenses with cat pupils. Tom doesn’t like that one bit. He blows the smoke sharply downward. “No, no, _no_. That’s just plain wrong. Cat eyes, Justin? Really? I’m sorry. I’m too drunk to stare into those and keep a straight face. It’s unsettling and, and, uncomfortable. Maybe you should just go back to the others and we’ll talk in the morning. That just doesn’t do it for me.”

He’s expecting to get some snark or defiance in response. But instead there’s a flash of panic in Justin’s expression, and then, “Wait.” Justin digs up a lens case out of his pocket and quickly removes the lenses, dropping them into the case, then pockets the case again. “There. Better like this?” he asks.

“ _That’s_ your real eye colour?” Tom asks redundantly with raised eyebrows. “Come here so I can see,” he beckons, gesturing for Justin to come near him. Justin obediently steps in closer. Tom transfers his cigarette to the hand stuck between the doorpost and his body and reaches out with his now free hand and brushes a thumb underneath Justin’s eye. He can both see and feel how Justin’s cheeks heat up. It excites him if he’s honest to himself, especially with the way Justin’s pupils dilates despite being flooded with light. “It’s a rare colour. Like grass covered in frost…” Tom observes, a slow smile spreading on his face. Justin’s eyes are ice green, minty, with a thin darker rim. “You’ve got beautiful eyes. Why do you cover them up? Do you need lenses to see well?” He’s overstepping by miles and tries to remember why he shouldn’t when Justin wets his lips and plays with the bell bar between his teeth. Justin displays every sign to be nervous, but unlike John earlier tonight the touch to the face relaxes Justin’s posture and makes him sway closer still. This is not unwanted touch. It would be so easy. Just ask if the boy wants to go for a walk to the park, there he could be (out of sight) kissing someone he actually wants to kiss. Play with that bell bar with his own tongue. Tom withdraws his hand to take the cigarette in it and turns his head to the side to take a hit on it.

Justin remains standing way too close. “No, Sir. I’ve got perfect vision, but I…” He looks down on his feet. There’s a clicking noise, like he’s tapping the inside of his teeth with the piercing. “...I feel naked without them.”

“So, it’s like wearing sun shades?”

Justin looks back up, a lopsided smile teasing a dimple into view. “I guess, yeah.”

“And you’re letting me see you naked,” Tom says, a smirk curling his lips as he gives Justin a slow once over under heavy eyelids.

Justin puts his thumbs in his pockets, making his hands loosely point towards his package, cants his hips that way he does when he’s coming on to Tom, directs a smirk of his own Tom’s way. “And you like what you see,” he challenges.

Tom tilts his chin slightly upward, shamelessly meeting Justin’s mint green gaze. He slowly blows out smoke upward, dragging out the moment. “I do,” he agrees and sees Justin’s chest starts heaving as his breathing speeds up in excitement.

His wife upstairs, his children around the corner, his only real friend around here in the basement, and Tom’s not only tempted, but moments away from actually taking this boy away from here and let the boy get what he’s been fishing for since that moment in the kitchen. They both want it, so why not?

It’s the alcohol talking of course. He should know better. His level of intoxication is sky high and it would be a good thing if he fell asleep or became a slurring mess incapable of getting an erection or coherent thought when he’s drunk, but he isn’t like that. Instead it just fries inhibitions and care for consequences. He rarely drinks this much because of it. Normally he’d stop at a good buzz. Too much honesty brings too many regrets in the morning. 

_But_ oh _what pleasant regrets they’ll be_ , he thinks eyeing the minx in front of him.

“Hey, Tommy! You got a cig for me too?” John’s voice coming from behind Tom makes Justin shutter down and take a step back. Tom regretfully reminds himself that Justin might want this, but it’s not what he needs. He may be older than Sam was, but he’s still younger somehow. He needs good adults around him he can be ‘naked’ with (and not in the literal sense) and be comfortable. People he doesn’t have to hide behind lenses and piercings and coloured hair with. If that’s who he really is that’s fine―(Except friggin cat lenses. That’s just off putting)―but if it isn’t, he shouldn’t have to hide while his soul wastes away inside like Tom’s. John’s a good man so that would be a good start to introduce them.

“Yeah, sure. Come here, John. I’d like you to meet someone,” he yells over his shoulder without taking his eyes off Justin. Justin looks stressed out, not wanting to be introduced to anybody. “Trust me,” Tom tells him quietly and winks. Justin relaxes a bit, giving the trust asked for, just in time for John to come stumbling and throwing an arm around Tom’s shoulder to keep his balance. “John, this is Justin, Justin, this is John. You two got something in common,” Tom says and gestures between them before digging up his pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

“Oh, yeah? An’ what’s that?” John asks with sceptical amusement and shakes Justin’s hand. Justin nods a greeting and remains quiet, waiting. Tom offers them both a cig from his pack.

“Well, god damned gorgeous needlework for one,” Tom answers and holds out his lighter to them.

“You’ve got a tattoo too, Sir?” Justin asks John, a flicker of interest in his eyes as he lights the cigarette and hands the lighter over.

“I do. On my back.” John’s still hanging onto Tom’s shoulder and it’s nice and good in every way. He turns his head towards Tom with a small frown. “You’re not supposed to tell people about it.”

Tom blows a raspberry. “I wouldn’t tell anyone who’d _judge_ you for it. But you two, you know how to appreciate fine body art. It’d be a shame to withhold the information. I want you to take off your shirt and show Justin.” Tom spots something over the hedge and scowls deeply. “Hold on,” he tells John, then, “Oi! Paul! You need me to buy you a set of binoculars, or is your spying going well enough without?” he yells angrily.

John chortles, Justin turns around to look towards the hedge, and Paul ducks his head and wanders back into his house. When Paul’s door slams John loses it laughing. “ _Man_ , I like you sober, but I friggin _love_ you when you’re drunk.”

Justin turns back towards them with a big grin. “I’ll second that.” The look in his eyes says he may not be talking about telling Paul (aka ‘the Spanish Inquisitor’) to mind his own business.

Either way, it doesn’t take long to get both Justin and John to take their shirts off to show off their tattoos and Tom’s a happy, _happy_ , man. John’s really excited to get a good look at Justin’s tattoo and all its intricately detailed Christian motives. And Justin impresses by reading the latin text under John’s cross aloud. Apparently he reads latin. Who knew? John’s warms up to the young man very quickly once they get on the discussion of tattoos. Tom’s a bad man for running his fingers over his favourite details on both of their tattoos while he comments on them, complimenting them. None of them seem to mind. Justin gets goose pimples all over at the touch, strangely enough, John gets goose pimples too. It’s far from cold outside, so that’s no excuse. Tom’s of a mind to try scraping his nails lightly down John’s back to see if he can get a shudder. Justin’s radiating jealousy (that John can’t see with his back turned) so he doesn’t. That isn’t the point of this exercise anyway.

When they’ve finished smoking and got their shirts back on John turns to Justin. “Hey, you wanna come downstairs and play some pool with us?”

Justin looks towards the corner that leads to the pool where his friends are, bites his lip, then he looks back and flashes one of those killer dimpled things that goes for a smile. “Yeah. I’d love that, Sir.”

Tom leads the way, John keeping a hand on his shoulder for stability. Stability that none of them except Justin has. Something that needs to be fixed. You don’t want someone sober hanging out with you while you're plastered and making a fool of yourself. John takes the whiskey and starts pouring them drinks. He asks Justin his age before pouring him a glass of whiskey too.

“I turn nineteen next week, Sir.” 

“You can stop calling me Sir. You’re a man grown then, so if we’re gonna drink together it’s John to you.”

“Alright, John.” Justin throws a look at Tom standing beside him.

Tom gives a smile that’s more a show of teeth. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m always going to be Mr.Rainsborough or _Sir_ to you,” Tom says and runs his tongue over one of his canines in a way too predatory and inappropriate manner since John’s busy pouring the drinks anyway and won’t register Tom’s body language. (Hopefully.)

Never letting Justin call him Tom has been all about keeping boundaries. Boundaries _Tom_ needs since Justin hasn’t had the sense to adhere to them. But right now Tom’s being stupid, shifting it from boundary to kink level. Not _his_ kink. He’s never been one for obedience games as such. It does push one of Justin’s buttons it seems. He flushes, eyes getting an excited glint, and licks his lips. “Anything you want, Sir,” he says tilting his head and slanting his eyes just so, making the word ‘anything’ mean exactly that.

“Woah. I don’t know what that was but it sounded off,” John says laughingly and thrusts a glass in both their hands. “Come on. Who’s going to be the first one to beat Tommy boy at pool?” he asks directing his question at Justin and squeezing Tom’s shoulder again. John has never been this level of hands on. Tom’s not sure if it’s because they haven’t gotten this drunk together or if it’s because he feels relaxed with Tom now in a way he didn’t before. He almost wants to laugh about it. If John only knew how much it messes with Tom’s mind and keeps the flame of his low key crush burning.

Pool. Something Tom sucks at during his best days. He _wants_ to be good at it and that’s why he’d gotten the pool table to begin with. It was just not his game. John and Justin played the first round which John won. Now it’s Justin and Tom playing. He hates to lose while competing in anything. (Hence, his children refuses to play monopoly with him any more because apparently, he gets *mopey*. _Pfft._ ) So he brought out his bag of tricks instead. Just as Justin’s about to shoot Tom smacks him on the ass lightly with his cue stick. “Hey! That’s cheating you fucking asshole,” Justin protests in annoyance as the ball goes wide and both John and Tom laughs. He’s getting drunk rather rapidly, showing a low tolerance of alcohol.

“ _Language_ ,” Tom warns. Inwardly he doesn’t care but the parental side of him is on auto pilot any time he’s in his house.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Justin answers dryly. “Will you cut out the skullduggery you blasted bezonian. _Sir_ ,” he says with an arched eyebrow and arms crossed in front of his chest.

John folds over wheezing with laughter and Tom grins so wide his cheeks hurt. He backs Justin up against the pool table with a cocky swagger, leans in close and says “No. Now step aside and let me show you how it’s done.” Justin’s affronted look nearly kills John with laughter.

Tom loses of course. He sucks at pool after all. They talk (and drink) while they play and the mood is sky high, keeping them laughing more or less all the time. Tom’s not sure when he last had this much fun. It’s almost as if the two of them are competing for Tom's attention at times. Tom thinks he's just imagining it but it feels like it and it's heady.

They end up watching some movie they’d been discussing, all three of them on the couch together with Tom in the middle. It’s warm and cozy and life is good. And that’s the last thing he remembers.

* * *

He wakes up on the mattress on the floor beside John (thankfully fully clothed), John snoring softly with an arm slung around his midriff. Tom closes his eyes again and pretends to be sleeping while internally screaming in panic. There’s no scenario he can imagine that would land them like this. Well. No good ones. John wakes up maybe ten minutes later with a lazy mumble, then, “The fuck? _Shit._ ” The arm is promptly removed. “Fuck.” Tom feels John leave the mattress which is his cue to ‘wake up’ with a groan, rub his face and open his eyes.

John’s standing at the foot of the mattress looking down on Tom. He’s gorgeously mussed up. Tom blinks up at him. “Morning.”

“Morning.”

Tom looks around, like he’s taking stock of the surroundings before looking back at John. “Why am I sleeping in your bed?”

“You fell asleep there.”

“Where did you sleep?”

John turns very red. “Um… beside you?”

Tom fakes taking time to process this. “Oh. ….okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay. ...why? Did something happen?”

“ _No_! God, no. We lay talking and just fell asleep. Nothing happened, I swear.”

Tom nods and stretches out in a yawn. He’s got a headache but that’s to be expected. His internal panic is abating some. Most likely John’s stress stems from fear of being perceived as gay for having held Tom while they slept. Not from Tom making a pass at him and ending them up in bed together because John was too drunk to say no or understand what was happening. “Okay… I thought I fell asleep on the couch when we started watching the movie. Don’t remember shit after we sat down.”

“Oh. Yeah, you didn’t.” John scratches his stomach and thinks. “My memory’s a bit hazy too but… we were watching the movie… then I went to take a leak and lay down here to rest for a while and fell asleep. You and Justin were still watching the movie. Then I woke up from you coming down the stairs. You said you’d made a phone call. Justin was asleep on the couch by then. You woke him up and told him to go sleep in his room…. then you sat down on the mattress and we talked and emptied a cognac bottle together. Some time during that we both fell asleep.”

Tom sits up with a groan and digs his phone out of his pocket. He has received a text. It’s from Sam.

`**Kid:** I’m sorry I missed your call. I miss you too…`

So he called Sam. Of course he did. Who else would you call when you’re totally wasted but the love of your life? He looks at the call history. If Sam missed his call he must have gotten voicemail and left a message. He stares uncomprehending at the screen for a while before squeezing his eyes shut and falling back on the mattress with a pitiful whine. “ _No, no, no_.” 

“Trouble?”

“I left a 22 minute long voicemail to someone I shouldn’t have been calling to begin with. And I have no idea what I said. Back in the good old days answering machines at least had the decency to cut you off, now they just keep recording while you make a fool of yourself,” Tom complains and John chuckles. 

Later on it gets a bit worse. He’s having breakfast when Justin shuffles into the kitchen looking like a wreck. He won’t meet Tom’s eyes.

“Hey, Justin. I don’t remember a thing from after the moment we sat down to watch the movie. Did I do something I need to apologise for?”

Justin’s eyes snap up to meet his. “Nothing? You don’t remember anything?” * _brrt, brrt, brrt_ *

Tom shakes his head. Justin’s relief is palpable and Tom really, _really_ wants to know what happened.

“No, Sir. You didn’t do anything. No apologies needed. I had a great time yesterday,” Justin says with a dimpled smile.

John comes into the kitchen, newly showered and in clothes borrowed from Tom. “Morning, Justin. You full of shit when you're drunk or will I be seeing you in my office Monday morning?”

“You really meant what you said?” Justin says, eyebrows shooting upward in grateful surprise. 

“Of course,” John says, pours himself a cup of coffee and sits down. “I keep my promises. You’ll see. Nobody puts baby in a corner, remember?”

Both of them laugh and Tom's confused. “What did I miss?”

“Justin’s catching up on school, taking summer classes via Internet so he can go to college in fall. He needs to get away from here. But math is giving him problems and I promised I'd help him study.”

“Really? That's good. And what was that thing about baby in a corner?”

Justin’s the one answering that while making a sandwich. “That was your line, Sir. John apologised to me for judging me by my looks. He said ‘when I'm wrong I say I'm wrong’ and you practically died laughing. I didn’t get it since I hadn’t seen Dirty Dancing which upset you two because, you know, Patrick Swayze. That’s when we switched movie.” He takes a bite of his sandwich. “John fell asleep halfway through the movie but you and me stayed up watching.” He looks at Tom searchingly and it unnerves Tom. Something happened during that time, Tom just knows it. But _what?_

“I have no recollection of this whatsoever.” There’s a brief flicker of disappointment in Justin’s expression before he schools his face. Tom wants to scream in frustration. He can't ask. Whatever happened needs to stay under lid so he can deny it. “So you’re aiming for college in fall?” he asks instead. 

“Yeah. It’s the only way to get from under my parents thumb without alienating them. I swear, I'm going to die if I stay here much longer. This congregation… it isn't welcoming towards people like me. And Jessi is my best friend here. When she goes… I don't know how I'm going to cope.”

“So we're going to help him. He wants to study psychology and move to LA where his looks don't stand out like a sore thumb. You were right about Justin. He’s got good Christian values, this just isn't the place for him. I have no idea what makes Tim and Margaret think he needs to be set straight,” John butts in. 

_That_ tickles Tom’s memory. He’s sure Justin told him yesterday. He’s _sure._ He just can't remember no matter how hard he tries. There’s a big black hole where his memory should be. And why, why, _why_ did he call Sam? He suddenly remembers cheating on Grace with a _woman_. He groans and buries his head in his hands. “I'm never going to drink this much again. I can't remember shit. I've made a fool of myself. Did Noah and Jessi see me like that?”

Speaking of the devil… “Nah. Don’t worry, daddy,” Jessi says entering the kitchen. She ruffles his hair affectionately and places a kiss on his forehead. “We were gonna go down in the den to play xbox but mom told us not to. She told us you had a boys night and were to be left alone.”

“Thank God. I don’t know if I could live with myself if you had, pumpkin.”

Jessi rolls her eyes. “ _Dad._ I'm nineteen. I'm sure I'd survive to see you drunk once in my life.”

“You have. But yesterday I drank way past my limit.”

Jessi giggles and takes a soda from the fridge. It’s way past noon and while Tom, John, and Justin have just crawled out of bed, Jessi's been up and about since early morning as usual. “I have seen you drink, dad. But I can honestly say I've never seen you drunk.” Which is bullshit. Tom’s on the verge of pointing out that he’s barely been sober a full day for the past two months, more or less constantly hopped up on painkillers and booze to get through the day without killing himself. It hits him then that she hasn't understood that he’s been constantly buzzed. He’s not sure if that's a good or bad thing. But it’s a relief. He wonders what Noah makes of it. He’s definitely seen Tom drunk that day on the swings. Although he hasn't drunk himself to a blackout since before his retirement. “Why were you out partying anyway?” Jessi asks and sips her soda, hopping up to sit on the kitchen counter. 

“We were celebrating,” John says with a smile. “Your father took third place in his first shooting competition.”

“That’s awesome! I didn't know you've taken up competitive shooting.” Jessi grins. “I didn’t even know you owned a gun.”

Justin’s frowning at Tom. “Me neither. Why do you own a gun? Those are evil things.”

“Oh, don’t be overdramatic, Justin,” John complains. “A gun’s not evil. The person holding it can be, but the gun in itself isn’t.”

“Disagreed,” Tom pipes in. “The gun is evil. It’s only purpose is killing. If we were to ban all guns nobody would ever get shot. Simple as that. And the person holding it doesn’t have to be evil to potentially kill someone. Think of all the accidents where children finding their parents firearms are involved. There’s no way you can ever convince me that a four year old finding a gun and by mistake or curiosity pulling the trigger on himself or anyone else is evil.”

“Then why do you own one?” Justin says, still scowling at him.

John saves Tom from having to answer. “That might be my fault. I saw him looking at them at the store and convinced him to come with me to the range. I don’t know if you realise how crippling it is for the soul when you no longer can do something you love because your body doesn’t work properly anymore. Evil or not, firing off a couple of rounds unloads a whole lot of frustration and anger that you carry around within otherwise.” Tom nods along to John’s explanation. “It was also me who convinced Tom to participate in the competition. So you can quit giving Tom the stink eye,” John says and smirks at Justin. Justin looks sullen. Even the slow * _brrrrrt, brrrrt_ * sounds petulant.

“I know I don’t know you that well but I still think it seems out of character for you to own a gun,” Justin says looking at Tom.

“Maybe so. But we all do things that’s out of character sometimes,” Tom answers a wee bit of annoyance creeping into his voice and expression. He’s still got a headache and feels generally like hell and he can’t exactly explain _why_ he bought the gun to begin with. Justin however looks like he’s been slapped before he takes a bite of his sandwich and looks down, once again refusing to look Tom in the eye. 

“Can I see the gun?” Jessi asks.

“ _No_ ,” both Tom and Justin replies at the same time, making John laugh.

“Oh, come on. Don’t be such spoilsports.” Jessi jumps off the counter and slaps Justin on the arm. “You’re way too much like my dad,” she complains.

“Frankly, from what I’ve seen that’s not a bad thing,” Justin grouses and sticks his luscious pink pierced tongue out at Jessi. Tom’s disgusted at himself for lusting over Justin even while he’s sitting here angsting over a blackout and whatever may have happened or not happened during said blackout. _Especially_ in front of John who he’ll jump through hoops to impress just to get a squeeze on the shoulder from. At least he did one thing right yesterday by introducing John and Justin.

“You can’t see it, pumpkin. It’s locked in a gun locker at the range. And I don’t want you anywhere near it,” Tom says.

“Awww. _Please_ , daddy. I just want to see it, that’s all. I don’t need to touch it or anything,” Jessi whines and comes around the table to drop into his lap, dangling her legs like she’s done since she was a little girl. She makes her eyes big and innocent, pouting and looking all doe eyed in the way he has such hard time saying no to.

“Tell you what? If you come along to cheer me on the next time I compete, I’ll show it to you.”

Jessi makes a happy little squeal and kisses his forehead. “Great! Thanks, daddy.”

“Great,” Justin mutters. “Next you’ll be draping yourself in confederate flags and white sheets with pointy hats, buy machine guns to each other for Christmas, and declare the need to reinstate apartheid.”

John sits quietly, sipping his coffee with an amused smile and just watches the show. Jessi gets off Tom’s lap just as Noah comes in to fetch a soda. “Noah. Guess what? Dad’s got a gun,” Jessi informs him.

“Cool. Can I get one?”

“ _No_.”

“Then can I get a tattoo?” Noah asks then, opening the soda while looking at Tom.

“Ask your mom,” Tom deflects.

“Ooo. Nice save, dad,” Noah says dryly. By now John’s covering his mouth to hide his mirth.

“I’m getting a tattoo when I go to college,” Jessi declares in a chipper voice and goes back to fetch her soda by the counter.

“You don’t say. What are you planning to get?” Tom asks resignedly. It’s going to end up being his fault somehow. Not that he minds her getting a tattoo. But his parents are going to blame him―loudly and arbitrary―if their precious little granddaughter gets a tattoo. It’s rare that they are satisfied whatever he does. 

“A smurf. Right here.” She turns her back at them and pats the back pocket of her jeans shorts.

Tom makes a wounded animal noise and both Noah and Jessi cracks up laughing and high fives each other. “Animals. That’s what you are. Get out of my sight,” Tom says mock sufferingly and waves a hand towards the door. They go, still laughing. “My children have no respect for me anymore,” Tom complains and rubs his temples while they still can hear him. He doesn’t really mean that. This is theatrics and he’s sure both his children knows that. He’s just playing along with their antics.

“They do, Sir. They have a shitton of respect for you. They’re just not afraid of you,” Justin says, thinking he was being serious. He still refuses to look Tom in the eye though.

“Nah. You’re a total pushover,” John jokes and lifts his cup to take a sip.

Justin scowls and answers John before Tom has a chance to come with a counter. “No it’s true. They do respect him. And when he says something seriously they listen. If anything, they’re afraid of disappointing him.” His chin is jutting out defiantly as he looks at John, daring him to refute.

John holds his cup by his mouth without drinking, eyebrows raised in a silent ‘ _what-the-hell?_ -expression.

Tom thinks Justin is being a bit over protective, like the only one allowed to criticise Tom is Justin himself. “Children,” Tom says with a sigh. “Sometimes I don’t know if they’re a blessing or if we get them as a punishment for our sins.”

“Amen, brother. I’ll drink to that,” John says with a little smirk to Tom and raises his coffee cup in a toast.

“Yeah, right. And what sins have you committed?” Justin says skeptically and finally meets Tom’s eyes.

Quite frankly, this glorification isn’t sound. Tom’s no saint and he needs Justin realise that or Tom might buckle under the pressure trying to live up to the faith Justin has in him. He snorts. “Adultery, for one,” Tom answers bluntly. His children knows it already, so does John so he might as well say it. “Excessive drinking obviously. Not to mention all the dumb things I’ve done while drunk. It’s really hard to make informed decisio―”

“ _Fine_! I get it,” Justin cuts him off angrily and pushes his chair away from the table. He gets up, takes what’s left of his sandwich and heads for the door. 

The mood swing alarms Tom and he feels he needs to placate Justin somehow by saying something nice. Looking at Justin walking towards the door and thinking fast at the same time however proves difficult with a hangover and Justin’s ass so sweetly wrapped in denim. “Justin.”

Justin stops in the doorway without turning around. “ _What_?”

Tom says the first thing that comes to mind. “Before I forget to say it. Those jeans suit you really well. Looks good on you.” And what the hell was that? Of all the things that came to mind he had to go and make a comment based on Justin’s ass.

Justin bends his head and shakes it as to himself. He then turns his head to look over his shoulder at Tom. “I know. You _said_. Yesterday,” he says bitterly with an equally bitter mimicry of a smile. The sullen darkness in his eyes makes Tom think he’s said something very wrong right now. Or yesterday more likely.

“I don’t mean this in a scolding, parental kind of way, Justin,” John butts in, turning so he can look at Justin. “But those baggy things you’re usually wearing aren’t doing you any favours. Tom and I, we might be getting old, unable to comprehend the fashion of your generation, but if you’d come looking for a job at my office, without me knowing you, I’d be more likely to hire you like that than if you wore your usual pants.”

Tom’s been keeping eye contact with Justin and feels heat from shame creeping up his cheeks. He’s done something to put all that disappointed sullen bitterness in Justin’s eyes and he can’t remember what for the life of him.

“Noted,” Justin says then he leaves.

“Phew. Who pissed in his cereals?” John asks when he’s gone.

“Me probably.”

“Nah. He and me had a talk while you were out smoking yesterday during the movie. That young man idolizes you to high heavens, Tom. I don’t think you can do anything wrong in his eyes. Made me ashamed of myself. Apparently you’re the only adult who has treated him with respect around here from the get go, not just tolerated him.”

“That makes me sad to hear.”

“Me too. Guy's got good grades and a sound head on his shoulders. Yet Tim and Margaret have uprooted him over and over ‘trying to fix’ him. Apart from his looks I don't know what's supposed to need fixing.”

Tom can think of a whole lot of things but nothing he truly agrees with except for Justin being drawn to men as well as women. At least Justin could choose not to sin and still have a chance at true romance, unlike Tom. That’s the luxury of being bisexual. Tom just nods his agreement with John and sips his coffee.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I'd like to start with a spoiler that isn't really a spoiler.  
> Tom currently is abusing painkillers and alcohol to cope. He will _**not**_ develop an addiction. (That's the spoiler that isn't a spoiler.) Abuse and addiction are two different things and addiction is born out of abuse. It can go really fast or take years depending on what you're abusing before your brain grows addicted and once it is you'll never really free from it. One pill/sip/hit/game of whatever's your poison and your brain may scream its cravings to you trying to drown all else out no matter how long you've been sober from it. Tom's not going to fall into that. 
> 
> Now this all is close to home for me because dad's an alcoholic. I didn't realise this until I was nearly 20 years old. Why? My dad had a good job, was drunk once or twice a year, had friends and money, kept himself in control. But he drank daily. A lot more than I was aware of because he seemed so sober and in control. (Until the addiction got the better of him and his life collapsed) I'm projecting that straight into the Rainsborough household. Jessi is in no way blind or naive, Tom's just good at hiding it and even when he knows he's buzzed Jessi and Noah don't see him act out of character in their eyes and he does his best to keep his game face on in their presence.
> 
> And now to other ramblings because I feel talkative so I'll pretend you're listening. X)
> 
> Writing someone drunk is hard sometimes. :P My mind was screaming at me that I was writing Tom OOC when I really wasn't. I mean, I know how much my own behaviour changes when I'm drunk, and god know I've had some people around me who are like night and day depending on whether they've drank or not. But writing the shift in thought pattern and behaviour step by step proved difficult to me this time. Ugh. Also, it's been a bit of a challenge to write teenagers out of parental POV. We behave different with parents than with friends or unrelated adults we meet and appear more childish with our parents. I mean, I'm 35 and I still roll my eyes in exasperation and go "Mo- _oom_!" when she is being, well, too mom-ish. Oh, and it's hell writing more people than two at once in a conversation. I'm never going to do it ever again! *lies, all lies*
> 
> Also, Tom is dumb. Just because you're bisexual doesn't mean you can choose who you love. *mutters "idiot" at Tom and skulks off*  
> *skulks back*  
> Should anyone of you care to share your thoughts about John or Justin (but especially John actually) at this point, feel free to do so. I'm all ears. Just saying...  
> *scampers off again*


	14. The Phonecall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Tom was blackout drunk he made a phone call to Sam. This is what Sam heard on his answering machine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a small spoiler in this chapter for the next Volatile Chemistry chapter. I've had this one done for quite a while and the next VC chapter is also done, I'm just withholding that until I'm done with the next VC chapter due to the cliffhanger the next VC chapter leaves. So if you don't like to have any spoilers for VC (they're more the teaser-spoiler kind) wait to read this.
> 
> And as always, a huge thank you to the imput from my wonderful Beta, Mizz_kitty21!

## Summer 2014

"Hey, kid... I just wanted to hear your voice. I know I shouldn't be calling you. You've got your life and I…... I'm drunk. I'm really drunk. I'm sorry I called you in this state. I shouldn't. I _know_ I shouldn't. But I miss you. I miss you so much my inside feel like it's tearing apart and I can't breathe. Not a day goes by when I don't think of you... I write you, you know? I write you a couple of times a week. I burn the letters. I've got no right to disturb you when I can't offer anything back. …......I saw the derby. I watch it over and over. You were brilliant and, and.......... Sam, I saw the interview afterwards too. Would you think less of me if I confess it made me cry? Thank you. Thank you for that. ….....I mean, I think of you and I wonder if you ever think of me too. As selfish as it is, it makes me feel better that you haven't just forgotten me….... What was that kiss about? Are you dating that Angel? It didn't really look like it. Your brother's face is hilarious though. I guess you're out to him too nowadays. He took it well I gather? I've seen you still talk to each other and play well together after that, so I surmise it went well..... I wish I could talk to you, hear what's going on in your life. Tell you about mine. I've taken up a new hobby. You'll never guess― _Shit_! Hold on, I just gotta―" 

"I'm back. I bought a gun. A Colt 1911. Today I entered my first competition and came in third. I'm quite proud of that. I beat much more experienced shooters…... So we went out celebrating afterwards and... Oh, kid. I'm in such a mess. I AM such a mess. I shouldn't have drunk this much. I shouldn't have called you. Don't call me back, okay? Just….... I cheated on Grace tonight. With a woman. We just made out. I'm pathetically needy for touch and that's how that started. No, more like... Okay so I've made a friend. A guy. We grew up together but belonged in different cliques. His name is John. And I daresay he's my only friend back here nowadays.... Grace and I, we don't…... anyway. Guy's straight. I've managed to acquire a slight crush on him, and, and, I've found myself thinking that if he wasn't straight….... It would be perfect you know? We could have had something more than just friendship, and it would be easy to hide because he's well respected in the congregation, and our wives approve of the friendship. Not that it matters since he's straight and, well... you know how it goes. You can't always get what you want."

*chuckle*

"Kid, I'm such a mess. I'm such a total mess. I shouldn't have had this much to drink. I've done something stupid. So terribly stupid, kid, you have no idea….... My children have this friend, Justin, he's 19 and so terribly gorgeous! Swimmer body, tattoo sleeve, piercings, attitude... and he comes on to me. Until tonight I've done a fairly good job hiding that I want nothing more than to fuck his brains out. The reasons I shouldn't pursuit him is a mile long. Two miles at least! .... So tonight we made out on the couch while watching Dirty Dancing. John was sleeping on a mattress behind us. My children were out in the yard by the pool, and Grace was upstairs. Can you imagine what a big time screw up that is?.... We almost went further. Almost….... Sam he's no rival for you. Nobody is but _Damn_. I turn into a bitch in heat anytime he's near, and when he put the moves on me tonight I didn't say no. Not to begin with. ....okay so we went a bit further than just making out. But not all the way. I said stop. I said we were both to drunk to give informed consent. I think I pissed him off."

*crashing sound*

"Shit. Hold on...."

"Right. I'm back. I just wanted to hear your voice, Sam. _God_ , I miss you so much! I know it was a mistake calling. I _know_ that. But then again, me being alive is a mistake too. So there’s that. Don’t call me back. Nothing good can come out of it….. Grace won’t let me take a job and it’s driving me crazy. She says I’ve been on the road for twenty years, and, and, it’s time for me to stay at home. I get where she’s coming from. I do. I _do_. She deserves better than I’ve ever been able to give her. But at the same time, I don’t know how I’ll make it without a way to get away. My only breathing place now is down on the gun range, but the people there…. Sam they’re screwed up. The opinions they have about some things makes me nauseous. I feel like gagging any time I hear any of them use the word ‘nigger’, for an instance. Christ! What do they think? It’s 2014, for God’s sake! It should be common knowledge by now that it isn’t the skin colour that dictates the value of your soul. God loves all his children. …...except people like me. Who continuously fail to live up to his standards…… anyway. I love you, Sam. Always will. I hope you’re happy and well. Have a good life.”

* _click_ *


	15. My friends' Dad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justin remembers the night very clearly, even if Tom doesn't.

## Summer 2014

“ _You can’t just go and decide something like that for yourself!_ ”

“ _Yes, I can. I’m a grown man. I’ve done everything you asked of me since my retirement. I need something to do or I will go insane._ ”

“ _That’s just bullshit! All you want is another excuse to skip around the country and be a manwhore. You could devote more time to the church. Our projects―_ ”

“ _No, Grace, I **fucking** can’t!_ ”

Justin watches his friends’ faces as they draw in a shocked breath at the same time as they can hear Grace do the same. It's like they've never heard Mr. Rainsborough use the word ‘fuck’ before. _Oh, fuck, Justin. Why are you doing this to me?_ Maybe Mr. Rainsborough saved those kind of words for him especially. There is no way in hell that was the first time Mr. Rainsborough touched another guy that way. He couldn’t have been the first. He stubbornly refused to believe that. Sure, he could have gotten that good at kissing by kissing girls, but the rest? He was way too casual and skilled at it. Justin remembers the first time he himself had been with a guy. How nervous and awkward he'd been, how weird it had been to touch another guy’s dick. How many fumbled fails. Mr. Rainsborough had been plastered and yet he had been neither awkward, fumbly, or unsure. 

Justin suppresses a shudder of pleasure at the sheer memory of it. He tries not to think about it, because when he does the anger and shame over the final rejection came welling back. _I need to teach you about informed consent, Justin. You realise none of us are sober enough to give it?_ Of course he knew all about ‘informed consent’, but that was just bullshit. Sure, you did stuff you regretted when you were drunk. Everyone did. But damn it! Both of them wanted it so what was the problem? No way Mr. Rainsborough was an unwilling participant. He started it! (Kinda.) He was the one who initiated the kiss! Memories of that night pounded inside his skull, demanding to be relieved and savoured. _Stop, Justin. Shit, shit, oh fuck, just like that, no stop. You devious vixen, that tongue of yours is ambrosia. Dear lord that mouth of yours is sweet. You like this, huh? Turn over._ Mr. Rainsborough’s voice, low, assertive, growing rougher and rougher as the arousal took hold… No. Justin didn't want to acknowledge for a minute that Mr. Rainsborough wasn't consenting, that he didn't want it. By the look of him and his dirty talk he was more than happy to touch and taste Justin, to feel Justin do the same. But then he'd ended it. Justin would have whined and begged for them to go on, except… _I thought better of you, Justin. I thought you knew how to respect a no._ If it was one thing Justin feared it was losing Mr. Rainsborough’s respect. 

“ _Grace. Listen to me. I’ll keep devoting time to church, and to your projects. Nothing’s going to change that. But it’s not enough. I need something to do that is for me, and me alone, or I will go mad. I feel myself slipping and you won’t let me get a job. I’ve been offered several good ones already and you just keep saying no._ ”

“ _You’ve earned enough money not to have to work._ ”

“ _It’s not about the money! Why won’t you_ listen _to me?!_ ”

And yeah. Okay. Justin didn’t want to believe for a minute, that Mr. Rainsborough was straight―that he’d made out with Justin, just because he was too drunk to know better. Justin _knew_ what he saw in the kitchen that first day, and had continued to see now and then ever since… except there was this little nugget of doubt that kept nagging at him. What if he’d misread the (blatant, dammit!) signals and had pushed a straight man into doing something he didn’t want, and considered to be a sin? Getting hung up on his best friends’ dad wasn’t exactly pie-in-the-sky. So what if he was a bit older? Guy’s hot. And so fucking good in every way. Kind, caring, warm, and funny. A gift to mankind. The best thing to happen to Justin for a long, long time.

“ _Everything that comes out of your mouth is just lies, Tom! You’re a lying, cheating, piece of crap, and you’ve ruined my life! Don’t you think_ I _would have wanted to get a job? Do you think_ I _always wanted to be a stay at home mom while you fucked yourself around the country?”_

“ _I’ve never forced you to stay at home! We could have gotten a nanny, if that’s what you wanted. And I’ve never forced you to stay with me! You won’t even give me a_ chance _to redeem myself. If it wasn’t for the children we would have been divorced a long time ago, and you know it!_ ”

The loud slapping noise makes all three of them flinch, and breaks Justin out of his reverie and sends his heart leaping. For a fraction of a moment Justin almost loses faith in the man he admires so much, that’s been occupying his thoughts and set his heart racing since first meeting. A fraction, where he feels his world shatter, because you don’t hit women. _You don’t_. And for the man he admires so much to do it…

There’s another slap, and “ _Grace! Stop! Please, stop!_ ” Something crashes. “ _I’m sorry, Grace. Please, don’t. Stop it._ ”

Justin stares wide eyed at Noah and Jessi. Both have shrunk in on themselves, looking heartbroken, but not, in any way, surprised at the turn of events. 

“ _You. useless. piece. of. trash._ ”

Grace comes storming into the kitchen, Mr. Rainsborough following, pleading. “Grace, I’m sorry okay? But I’m going to do thi―”

They both stop dead when they spot their children and Justin sitting at the kitchen table. The silence is so heavy and awkward that you can feel it like a physical weight. Grace stares at them, then shakes her head angrily and turns on her heel. “I’m going to my parents,” she says and shoulders past Mr. Rainsborough. 

He’s left standing, looking at his children. Jessi is staring back at him, eyes big and filled with pain, Noah’s just looking at the table top intently without seeing it. 

Mr. Rainsborough’s eyes are glossy with unshed tears, and his cheek has a vivid red hand print. “Kids, none of this is your fault. What’s happening between your mom and me, it’s not to do with you, okay? You need to know that,” he says. For a brief moment his eyes flick to Justin, but he quickly averts his gaze. “I’ll be in the den,” he informs them and leaves the kitchen, shoulders slumping and head bowed down.

The heavy silence lingers. Justin doesn’t know what to say. Neither does his friends apparently. Noah is the first to speak up. He doesn’t tilt his head upward, but looks up through his bangs at Justin, eyes shame filled. “It didn’t always use to be like this…”

Jessi’s lips tremble. She looks down at her lap, closes her eyes and covers her mouth with a hand. Noah casts a glance at her and reaches out and takes her free hand under the table, comforting as well as seeking comfort.

Justin’s heart is pounding so hard. Grace had always been welcoming towards him, just like her kids and husband. He’s _liked_ her. There’s a ball growing in his stomach, hot, indignant, and righteous. Now, Justin **hates**...

* * *


	16. Bad Samaritan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justin studies at John's office. Tom comes to pick him up.

## Summer 2014

Tom peeks his head inside John’s office with a little smile. “Hey.”

John and Justin look up. “Hi, Tom,” John says with a responding smile, while Justin exclaims “Freedom! Finally!” and closes his math book, quickly stuffing it in the drawer John cleaned out for his benefit when he started coming here to study. 

John elbows Justin in the side. “Hey, it isn’t that bad, you ungrateful twerp,” he says playfully with moderate reproach.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, man.” Justin looks back at Tom who’s come into the room now. “Hey, can I go wait by the car? I need a smoke.”

Tom smirks and gestures at the door with his head. He’s been picking up Justin for the last three days while Justin’s car is by the mechanics. Justin gets out of the chair beside John and scuttles quickly towards the door, making a peace sign towards John in lieu of goodbye.

When he’s gone John chuckles and shakes his head. His warm brown eyes twinkle, making Tom’s heart flutter and his smile widens automatically. His crush on John is getting marginally worse, which sucks. They should stop hanging out, but he’s not strong enough to cut away one of the few good things he has in his life.

“Justin is a funny guy. Most of the time he’s smart and mature to a point where I forget how young he is, then he gets tired and instantly turns into a sulky teenager,” John says and pushes the chair opposite his desk with his foot in an invitation for Tom to sit down.

An invitation gladly taken. Tom pulls the chair out and sits down. He laces his fingers over his belly and stretches his legs under John’s desk. Incidentally, this makes their calves touch, but John doesn’t pull away. John’s very comfortable in their friendship nowadays. It’s a shame or a blessing that Tom’s the only one hyper aware of the point of contact and body heat bleeding through the fabric. “Tell me about it. How’s he doing study wise?”

“He’s doing great. He understands math well enough when you explain it the right way to him, and he’s very disciplined. He comes here every day on time, studies by my desk or in the office lounge, takes breaks at the same hours we do. He’s become a bit of an office mascot. We all help him. I think the others started doing it just to get breaks from everyday work once they noticed how polite he is, but oddly enough our general productivity has increased. Who knew it’d take a wayward teenager to boost our quarterly numbers, huh?” John grins and shifts, leaning forward on his elbows. His legs move too, but he doesn’t break the contact.

“You think he’ll get into college this fall?”

“Not a doubt in my mind.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“So did you tell Grace you’re competing out of state next weekend?”

Tom compresses his lips to a thin line and breathes out through his nose. “I did.”

“...And?” John prompts with an arched eyebrow.

“It didn’t go well.”

“You’re withdrawing?”

“No. We just had a massive fight. She got pissed at me for deciding to travel again. We didn’t know it, but the kids and Justin were home. I might have shocked them all since they heard me say ‘fuck’,” Tom says with a rueful smile. “Worse, they heard me say Grace and I would have been divorced long ago if it wasn’t for the kids. So now I’m stuck worrying that Jessi and Noah will somehow think it’s their fault Grace and I are fighting.”

“That sucks.”

“Mhm. I better run along or Justin will get impatient.”

“You do that.” As Tom starts getting out of the chair John gives his leg a little nudge with his own to catch his attention. “You want to go out and have a beer or ten later?”

“More than I have words to express,” Tom answers with a big smile, inwardly berating himself for the nervous little flutter inside. He’s sure he’s projecting the brief moments of freedom John offers onto the other man, and as such enhancing this lowkey crush all by himself.

“Great. I’ll give you a call tonight after I’ve done my domestic duties.”

“Alright. Talk to you then.” Tom gives John a silly little half salute with two fingers to his forehead and then slinks out of the room. He nods to one of John’s co workers in the corridor and pushes the elevator button. He leans against the wall and looks out of the window while he waits. He spots Justin by his car, talking to a stranger. The stranger is tall, built, grey haired, maybe around fifty years old. He’s wearing a closed leather jacket with a hooded sweater. They’re both talking and smoking. Tom’s heart speeds up and he gets a lump of anxiety crawling in his stomach. There’s just a sense or wrong-bad about the picture. He can’t put his finger on what it is about the man that gives him that feeling. He studies them more closely, ignoring the ding of the elevator. Even from here he can see the smiles, the body language. Justin is flirting.

 _Shit. Stupid kid. Can’t you go for people your own age for once?_

What’s worse is, the man appears to be flirting back.

_Am I just being jealous?_

No. That’s not it. He’s gotten this feeling before. It’s happened with people pretending to be friendly just to turn around and assault him (or try to) when they’ve been out of sight from others. A robbery in N.Y. Homophobes. Hooligans rooting for other teams. This wrong-bad feeling isn’t something to ignore. Justin’s in danger. He just knows it. He needs to get the kid to safety quickly.

He gets into the elevator and pushes the button, trying to think out a strategy. He removes his house keys from his pocket and grips them in a his fist so that the keys protrude out between his fingers. 

_What might he want? Money? The car? John has his gun here, doesn’t he? He might, if he planned to stop at the range later. How do I get Justin away from the man without alarming Justin?_

By the time he reaches ground floor he has his strategy. The outside heat strikes him like a wall the moment he steps out of the air conditioned office building. His own dress shirt with its rolled up sleeves and buttons open by the collar feels too warm. He locks his gaze on the stranger and sets off at a brisk stride, heart hammering furiously by now.

“Mr. Rainsborough!” Justin calls out when Tom’s within hearing range, dropping the cigarette and stomping it out. “This man needs our help.”

The stranger looks hopeful and sympathetic at Tom closing in. He is even taller than he seemed when seen from above. He must be around Sam’s height. His features are sharp and strong, high cheekbones, slightly slanted deep set eyes, silvery hair. Tom re-estimates the man’s age to be around his own age when he gets closer. The silvery hair plays tricks on the mind but judging by the rest of him he can’t be over forty, or not by much. His lashes are so thick and dark that he could be mistaken for wearing mascara. If Tom wasn’t so goddamned afraid he’d probably find him appealing.

“Does he now. Justin, I just remembered I forgot my car keys upstairs,” Tom lies with a tight smile, feeling the key fob burn in his pocket. “Could you run back to John’s office to get them? Ask him if he wants a lift to the gun range with us while you’re at it.”

Justin frowns. “Can’t you just call John?” he protests grumpily.

“Just do it, Justin. Meanwhile I’ll talk to Mr…” Tom says, swiftly inserting himself between Justin and the stranger, holding out a hand to shake but from the furthest possible distance.

“Alright, alright,” Justin grumbles with a dissatisfied expression and sets off at a jog towards the building.

“James,” the stranger fills in the gap Tom left in the sentence.

“Thomas,” Tom say as they shake, then steps away, distancing himself as much as he can without seeming overly rude. He’s sweating but trying to hide how nervous he is. The heat isn’t helping. How James can walk around in this summer weather in a leather jacket and a hooded sweater eludes him. 

“I’m sorry about your leg. Hope you’re doing better,” James offers with a sympathetic smile, showing he knows who Tom is. 

“Thank you. I am.” Tom’s voice is tight, he’s standing straight, gaze intent on James, ready for action. He hopes his feeling is right about James. He’s about to act like a total asshole. “I don’t know what you’re after, but you’re not going to get it here. I’m asking you politely to leave, or I will call the police.”

“Woah. Why so hostile? I’m just in need of a ride so I won’t miss my brother’s wedding,” James says in consternation and holds his hands up palm out.

“If that is so, I hope you find someone to drive you, but it won’t be us. Personally, I don’t believe you, so please leave,” Thomas says, voice steady. Hard and polite. Scared shitless. He’s not going to back off though. Not when Justin is in danger.

James scowls. “It’s rude as hell to call me a liar, when all I’m asking for is help. What did I do to provoke this attitude?”

“Nothing. Let’s call it instinct. You don’t need to see the fin to know there’s a shark in the water.”

“ _Instinct_?” James says incredulously and drops his cigarette on the ground. He looks slightly wounded.

“Yes.”

James shakes his head bitterly and gives Tom a disappointed and ( _Oh dear Lord!_ ) exceedingly hurt look. “Goes to show what Christian generosity is worth in these parts, when you can’t even be bothered to help a brother in need, based on ‘instinct’. I still regret having to see you leave the team, despite your attitude. Good day to you, Thomas Rainsborough,” James says before turning and walking away with hanging head and defeated shoulders.

Uncertainty and guilt wars within Tom. Maybe James really was just in need of help? In that case, what he had just done was as far from the Christian thing to do, as you could come. Was he just being paranoid? No, no, no. He can’t think that way. He’s been approached by thousands of people during his lifetime and only a small handful had evoked this kind of feeling in him. Any time he’d disregarded that feeling bad things had happened.

If he’d been alone he still might have been less hostile, more forthcoming. His own safety isn’t as important as the safety of those he cares for. He isn’t a good protector. It isn’t in his nature to be violent. Any off-the-ice fights he’s been in have been forced upon him. But he’d be damned if he’d let anyone in his company get hurt due to cowardice.

He watches James until the man is out of sight, then quickly fishes up the car key out of his pocket, unlocks the car, gets in, and locks it again. His hands are a bit shaky from the adrenaline rush of fear and preparing to fight. He takes a mini snickers out of a bag in the compartment between the seats, where he keeps a stash for longer trips. He nearly jumps when his phone vibrates in his pocket.

He fishes the phone up and answers. It’s John.

“Hey, Tommy. Can’t find any car keys up here. And did you rather want to go fire off some rounds than go out drinking?”

Tom runs a hand over his face. “No, no. Justin was talking to a stranger and I got a bad feeling about the man. I had to get Justin out of the way and to safety. The car key thing was just in case the guy was a carjacker. I also wanted the guy to know I had guns and backup. Pathetic, huh?”

“No. Are you alright? Do you want me to come down there?” John asks, sounding worried.

“I’m fine. I’m sitting in the car, feeling like a complete asshole. The man is gone. You can send Justin down again.”

“Alright. You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, John. I was probably just jumping at shadows.” Tom waves a hand dismissively even though John can’t see it. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Of course I’m going to worry about you,” John says with slight annoyance.

“ _Aww_. That’s sweet. You love me and want to have my babies,” Tom teases with a sickly sweet voice to deflect.

“Oh, shut up,” John says half between annoyance and a chuckle. “See you tonight.”

“Sure, honey,” Tom says, his grin carrying over in his voice. He proceeds to make kissing noises into the phone.

“Oo-kay. Hanging up now,” John says with a chuckle. Tom can hear him mutter “Asshole” with a fond voice before the call cuts off.

The call made Tom feel a lot better. He quickly eats the Snickers and starts the car, puts his seatbelt on, then drives to the entrance to pick up Justin, already feeling anticipatory about meeting up with John later. His lifted spirit is crushed by Justin getting into the car, glaring at him. “Where’s James?” he asks with an accusatory tone.

Tom starts the car and drives out of the parking lot. “I told him we couldn't help, so he left.”

“ _What?_ Why would you do that? He only wanted a ride to Arlington.”

“That was a bad man, Justin. If we'd let him into the car, bad things would have happened.”

“No, he wasn't. He was a great guy. What did he do to make you say that?” Justin crosses his arms grumpily. 

“Put your seatbelt on,” Tom chastises. Justin rolls his eyes but does what he’s told. “He didn’t do anything. I just know, okay?” Tom tries to explain. 

Justin goes back to crossing his arms and glaring. “That’s bullshit. He was a good guy and we should have helped him.”

Tom hates the niggling doubt about whether he did the right thing or not. It makes him defensive and waspish. “I had a feeling about him, okay? I get that sometimes. To my knowledge I've never been wrong, and if I've ignored that feeling bad things have happened.”

“I still think it's bullshit. All the guy wanted was to get to his brother’s wedding on time. He’d had his car and money stolen. And you’re the one who always talks about doing the Christian thing. Goes to show how much _that's_ worth.”

Tom grits his teeth. It’s way too close to what James said, and it gnaws on his self doubts. He feels a headache oncoming. “Sometimes you need to trust your instinct, Justin.”

“Fuck that. You were being selfish and lazy.”

“Mind your language!”

“What- _ev_ -er. James was a good guy.” Justin certainly could sulk bitterly along with the best of them.

Tom scowls. “Don’t be so naive. Not everybody who comes on to you wants your best, damn it!”

It’s the wrong thing to say, but Tom’s getting angry. It is dangerously close to calling Justin out on his bisexuality and that would open up for a discussion Tom does _not_ want to have.

“Maybe you're just jealous!”

“Oh, you'd like that, wouldn’t you,” Tom says with a mean, scornful voice, eyes narrowed but focused on the road. There are other words on the tip of his tongue, vehement denial of his own sexuality, disgusting, contempting slurs for what he is―for what Justin is―ready to spring free like poisonous arrows, in case Justin pushes the matter. 

Justin’s lips draw to a thin line. In his peripheral vision he can see Justin’s eyes narrow and give him a vitriolic stare. He ignores Justin, clenching his jaws angrily. Self doubt makes worms of anxiety crawl in his belly and he has an urge to plead for Justin to forgive him, except he doesn’t think he did anything wrong for once, so he doesn’t. 

Justing snorts into the silence, then turns his body and head away, looking out the window―giving Tom the cold shoulder rather than keep arguing.

Unlike the icy, lofty silent treatment Grace gives him most of the time nowadays―pretending he’s air and doesn’t exists―Justin’s silence is thunderous and judgemental. He might as well have been shouting. The only sound is the * _brrrt, brrrt, brrrt_ * from Justin’s tongue piercing dragging along his teeth.

Tom is silently fuming and angsting in the face of Justin’s anger. The longer they drive in silence the more Tom doubts himself. 

_What if he’s right?_ Am _I just jealous? Or envious of seeing them flirting so openly? No. No that’s not it. Envious perhaps, that they dare. But it’s just stupid. Somebody could have seen them. The wrong person laying eyes on Justin flirting openly with James, and Justin could have ended up in real danger even if I was wrong and_ James _wasn’t a threat. I’m **not** jealous. Just because I want to show Justin every possible carnal pleasure, doesn’t mean I want to stop him from exploring those sins with others. But, dear God! Does he have to do it with older men? Shit. I wish I could punch Tim for giving Justin daddy issues._

Tom instantly regrets the violent thought about Justin’s father. Violence doesn’t solve any problems. It’s a selfish thought too, based in his own frustration about Justin pursuing him, and all the times he’s fantasised about the young man beside him, being honorbound never to give in. (And angsting over whether he’s already given in during his drunken blackout or not.)

 _Christ! Why does he have to go for men_ at all _? He can choose, for crying out loud! He has the luxury. He’s bisexual. Oh, great. Now I’m feeling envy for real. Such a base emotion. I’m useless. Worthless. Envying a teenager who is ostracised by the society, bullied by peers and adults alike, who’d rather spend his summer studying his ass off than spend another year with his parents, and for what? Just because he can fuck around without having to hide, or risking eternal damnation. How far have I sunk? I’m pathetic._

He directs his thoughts towards the stranger, James, instead. Trying to pinpoint what set the alarm bells off. It’s not helping. Instead he just sees the level of emotional distress, _hurt_ , and bitter disappointment in James eyes before he walked away.

_Shit. What if I was wrong? I probably was. Acting like a total asshole because of some paranoid whim. No, no, no. Stop thinking like this! Remember Strasbourg? New York? Windy City? Detroit? If nothing else, the guy was a monster such as I, lusting over teenagers._

He’s grinding his teeth so hard his jaw muscles hurt. He hates being mean to people for no reason. But he made a decision and he’s going to stand for it.

They pull up on the driveway to Tim and Maggie’s house, and Justin grabs the door handle to get out as soon as they come to a stop. Tom’s hand shoots out to grab Justin’s wrist, making him stop, turn in his seat and glare a loud _What?!_ at Tom. Tom leans in closer and holds up an admonishing finger in front of his face. “Now you listen to me, Justin. You may hate me all you want. I don’t care.” He does. He cares a whole lot about what Justin thinks of him. “But I perceived James as a threat to both of us. Had I been alone I might have taken the risk and helped him anyway. But you were there. And if I think for a minute that you, or anyone else I care about, is in immediate danger, I will. not. hesitate a minute to be rude, selfish, lazy, or whatever you wish to call me. If I think acting that way will keep you safe.” He can’t keep his anger out of his voice―it comes out as hard and calm. His gaze is locked with Justin’s. Today Justin’s wearing ultramarine lenses to match the currently ultramarine streak in his hair. He’s got a black tank top that exposes his tattoo sleeve. “It may not be the Christian thing to do, but I care more for your safety than I care about going to Heaven. Is that clear?”

Justin’s anger has gone from thunderous silence to lowkey sullen. “I still think you’re wrong about him.”

“That may be so, but I don’t. And if I was, I don’t care. I’ve lived through enough mistakes in life to trust my instincts. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir,” Justin says and lowers his gaze. He bites his lower lip, pulling at the ring in it with his teeth and _Christ_! Tom’s too close not to want to be the one pulling that piercing with his own teeth, tasting that lip and changing that sullen mood by means of depravity. He lets go of Justin’s wrist and snaps back into his own seat, staring out of the windshield and grabbing the steering wheel, drumming his fingers against it impatiently. “May I go now, Sir?” Justin asks.

“You may.”

Justin gets out without another word, thankfully not slamming the car door.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who read all the side stories in this 'verse, if you found yourself thinking "Hmm... Isn't that...?" Then, yes. Yes it was.
> 
> This chapter has another POV in [chapter 3 of "Going Rogue".](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6375544/chapters/14605852) That chapter can be read as a stand alone if all you want is to see the other POV. The rest of Going Rogue is very trigger heavy, but that chapter isn't.


	17. The Man in the Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom's sinking further into his depression. His self-esteem is at an all time low. It makes him stupid. Lucky for him he's got a good friend to vent too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The usual warnings. You know; homophobia/homophobic slurs, internalised homophobia. Depression and all that jazz. Misuse of prescription drugs. Alcohol. Stupid-drunkenness.

## Summer 2014

When Tom gets to the bar that night, John’s already there. He’s ordered beer and Jägermeister for the both of them, standing by the bar. He lights up when he sees Tom come in, but his smile falls when he notices Tom’s mood. “Hey, are you alright? You look like hell,” he says when Tom reaches the him.

“Not even close. I don’t know what I need the most. A hug, or to drink myself into oblivion. If someone put a bullet in my skull right now, I’d be forever thankful. Grace too, probably.”

“Hey now, don’t talk like that,” John says worriedly, and―to Tom’s surprise―pulls Tom in for a hug. A real hug. Not one of those short backslapping bro hugs that Tom kind of hates. He gratefully melts into it with a tired sigh. Screw the way his pulse jumps. And if he inhales a bit deeper through his nose than strictly necessary, nobody has to know. He'll take what he can get. 

“Fucking fairies,” somebody remarks nearby. 

John pushes himself away from Tom, but keeps one arm still around his back. “We’re no fucking faggots! The guy’s in pain, for god’s sake. Fuck off!” he says to the person who made the remark, scowling deeply. 

The person holds his hands up. “Alright, alright. I'm sorry. Chill,” he says, then takes his beer and moves away from them. 

Tom wants to scream. He wants to cry. He wants more than anything _not to be_ a God’s be damned faggot. Disgusting. Wrong. Diseased of mind and heart. Ugly and corrupted on the inside. It hurts. Words like that always hurt a thousand times more, coming from the mouths of people he cares deeply for. They’re in the closest city now, out of town, out of the congregation’s eyes. And yet the truth of what he is always haunts him. Wherever he goes he’s reminded of the truth.

Still, when John pulls him right back into a hug again, whispering “Sorry about that. People should just mind their own business.”, he accepts and is grateful. Crumbs is more than he deserves anyway. 

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. So what happened?” John asks when he steps away from Tom, keeping a friendly hand on his shoulder and handing him the Jägermeister from the bar. 

“It just gets too much sometimes, you know?”

“I know. Want to talk about it?”

They clink their shot glasses together and downs the spicy licorice tasting liquor. “Do you really want to hear me whine about my life?” Tom says with a tired smile and a dismissive little wave.

“Sure I do. Then I can bitch about my life, and we’ll get hammered and find ourselves a couple of ladies afterwards to perk us up,” John says, upbeat and encouraging, and gives his shoulder a squeeze.

Tom’s mouth stretches into mimicry of a grin. He bites on a thumbnail, considering for a moment. He doesn’t want to be a burden, but he feels ready to explode. It’s that god damned anger that keeps building up, the feeling of total powerlessness, the constant anxiety. Maybe talking about it will help. Maybe. “Alright. Sounds like a plan.” He grabs his beer and downs a couple of mouthfuls, hitching his foot against the foot rail along the bar. “Grace treats me like air. She hardly answers when I address her, and only talk to me when she tells me what I’m supposed to be doing for church, or to argue. Unless, of course, we’re in public.”

“Of course,” John chips in dryly, sipping his beer.

“Since I told her I’m going to compete out of state, she isn’t even bothering keeping up appearance in front of the kids. Doing that god damned ‘tell your father that…’ when we’re in the same room together. _That_ leads to us arguing even more, because I don’t think the children should be involved in _our_ problems.” Tom feels the anger and frustration well up while he talks about it. It’s one thing giving him shit. He deserves it. But Jessi and Noah has done nothing to earn being caught in the middle. They don’t need to hear the snide remarks and the put downs Grace throws his way. It’s becoming increasingly hard not to respond the same way. He grinds his teeth to keep from leaking vitriol so often nowadays he gives himself jaw- and headaches from it. “I mean, it’s one thing bashing me. I’ve cheated on her so many times over the years. Had long stable relationships on the side. I deserve the crap she’s giving me. But the kids sure as hell don’t, and it pisses me off when I see them hunch their shoulders and be sad. Punishing me through them is just plain wrong!” He’s working up steam now, gesturing with his hands while he talks. John’s nodding along while he talks. “I can barely look at her without feeling resentment welling up inside, for god’s sake!”

“Welcome to my world,” John says, dark and serious. “That’s why I want a divorce. But while you and I left home to see the world, they stayed back to raise the kids and devote themselves to the congregation. I used to think it’s a good thing, but I’m not so sure anymore. Our congregation is so strict. It’s 2014. Maybe it’s time we moved with the times? Does God really intend for us to live in miserable relationships where we end up loathing each other? And it’s not exactly like we can seek counselling. Not with the rat race for perfection going on. Somebody mentions therapy and the whole neighbourhood is abuzz with gossip.”

“Mhm! Exactly. And every time my parents come over they complain about anything I do.”

“ _Really_?”

Tom gives John a bemused smile. “Yes. That’s nothing new. Why sound so surprised about it?”

“Because they always brag about you. ‘Our son, the famous hockey player’. Anytime they talk about you it sounds like you’ve won the ChHL cup all by yourself, won the Nobel prize, and singlehandedly saved humanity.”

Tom snorts contemptuously, then drains half his beer in one go. “Shit. I can tell you, they’ve _never_ directed that praise my way. It’s always been ‘Thomas, why didn’t _you_ get to be valedictorian? Why did you only get an A and not an A+? This is just 98%. Why didn’t you get 100%? How could you miss that goal against this or that team? You should have passed this or that player, _he_ knows what he’s doing. Thomas, Noah only got a B in history. Why didn’t _you_ help him study better? Thomas, why do you let Grace drive that car? She deserves a newer model. Thomas, why did _you_ let Jessi leave the house with such a short skirt. It’s inappropriate. Thomas, why didn’t you play more carefully. You’ve ruined your career―‘ Shit.” Tom breaks off his bitter rant with a lump in his throat and turns his head away, grinning. Smile for the cameras. Definitely no crying in public. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t bother you with this.”

“Fuck that, Tommy. I had no idea it was that bad. This calls for hard liquor.” John grabs Tom by the neck and squeezes lightly while he waves down the bartender for another Jäger/beer combo along with a large whiskey each. Then turns his attention back towards Tom. “Don’t ask for forgiveness for unloading. I’m here for you. That’s what bros are for, right? Think of all those times I’ve whined about my unhappy marriage. I’ve felt a lot better just by getting to talk about it. It’s your turn now. They really blame you for your injury?”

There are times in life when you just want to crawl into someone’s arms and let them tell you everything is going to be alright. Tom wishes he could do just that right now. “Yes they do. It’s absurd if you ask me. Hockey is an impact sport. Name a hockey player who retire at my age or older who hasn’t got an injury and I’ll call you a liar. Or him. My leg still bothers me on and off, yet I long to go down to the rink where the local team practises and play with them just for fun. Slam some youngbloods into the board, get smashed on, show off. I know it could end in me never being able to walk properly again, but I’m starting to think it might be worth it.”

“Maybe it is,” John agrees, thanks the bartender and pushes the Jägermeister towards Tom. They clink their glasses together and drains the drink. The booze is finally starting to bleed some warmth into Tom’s belly. The warm hand by his neck helps too. “I can’t get over that they’d blame you for getting injured,” John says, shaking his head in incredulity. 

“Christ. You’re supposed to honour your parents. I’ve tried. God knows I’ve tried. I’m just never good enough for them. Anyway, Justin threw a fit at me today too. That stranger on the parking lot that I got a bad feeling about? Justin got pissed at me because I didn’t help him. According to Justin, the guy had gotten his car and wallet stolen and just needed a ride to his brother’s wedding in Arlington. I was _so_ sure the guy was up to no good. But the more I think about it, the more I doubt myself.” He runs a hand through his hair in frustration, then drains the last of his first beer.

“Don’t. You did what you thought was right. If you weren’t, he probably found someone else to drive him. And if you were, you saved the day.”

“Thanks…” Tom’s still not convinced, but it feels good to be reassured anyway. “And to top it off…” Tom bites his lip, looking at John, deliberating if he should make one last confession. He’s so tired of keeping stuff in. “You remember when I got blackout drunk and made a 20 minute phone call I shouldn’t have?”

“Yeah?”

“There is this woman…” Something inside Tom screams in protest about calling Sam a woman. Like misgendering him is worse than lying about his existence at all. It feels like he's demeaning Sam by describing him as something else than he is. “We used to hook up once or twice a year. And I miss her so, so much. It was never just about sex. I love her. I’m in love with her as I’ve never been with Grace. I can’t stop thinking about her. I know I’m never going to see her again, and it hurts. All this, all these things, it feels like I’m not going to make it. It’s too much! I can’t… I can’t… _Shit_.” He closes his eyes, swallowing against the lump in his throat and the ball of anger at the unfairness of it all in his belly. The pressure from everything feels like a physical weight that just gets heavier each day.

“Hey, hey. Come here.” Tom finds himself pulled into a real hug for the second time tonight. God knows he needs it. John mumbles meaningless encouragements that Tom barely hears. In all this shit he’s still way too aware of John’s body pressed against him, the scent of his after shave. He wishes he wasn’t. He really does. John’s a good friend and he really appreciates the friendship that’s developed between them. If he hadn’t felt so isolated, so frozen inside… if his life hadn’t been so devoid of romance and sex, he thinks this crush would fade, that the attraction wouldn’t be so hard to handle. But that’s just another stone on the _would-have-could-have-should-have_ pile of trash that is his life now. For _**the rest of his life**_. 

The thought almost triggers a panic attack. They’d started coming with an alarming frequency lately as the pressure had been building day by day. Just yesterday while driving to church he’d had to stop the car because he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get enough air because he was hyperventilating too badly. He disentangles himself from John and excuses himself to go to the bathroom. There’s no line so he slinks in and locks the door, rests his back against it with hanging head, taking deep slow breaths. His heart is hammering far too fast, making irregular extra hard, painful beats with weird stops afterwards. It scares him at first, thinking he’s having an heart attack.

It’d be over.

The thought that he might be dying is, ironically, what calms him down. There would be no taint of suicide on his family. He wouldn’t be outed as gay. His torment would be over.

He’s disappointed when his heart calms down and his breathing returns to normal.

He pushes himself away from the door and goes to the sink. He splashes some water in his face, staring at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t like who he’s becoming. He’s guilty of five out of seven deadly sins. Lust. That one is a given. Pride. Whether it was on the ice with half the crowd chanting his name after a goal, making him feel like a god, or just John cheering when he nailed a round on the range―pride is definitely one of his sins. These two have always been a constant. But the others are new. Greed. He has so much he should be thankful for, but he wants more. He wants to be happy again, even if he doesn’t deserve it. He wants romance and laughter back into his life. Envy. God knows he’s started envying people their happiness and freedom. And wrath. The anger that’s been simmering below the surface lately. It’s ugly. He’s ugly on the inside. Why do people even want to be around him to begin with? He hates what he sees in the mirror. Ugly inside out.

He digs up his painkillers from his pocket and downs one, making a cup out of his hands and drinking some water before he dries himself off and goes back out.

* * *

Too much booze and one more painkiller later, he’s feeling quite good, thinking everyone who dislikes him can go to hell. He’ll meet them there eventually anyway, so screw ‘em. He’s willingly and happily acting wingman to John again. These ladies, Sarah, Monica, and Sheila―didn’t believe John when he bragged about Tom being a retired hockey star, so Tom leaned in close with a cocky, challenging smirk and said “ _Google me._ ” One of them did, and then it was a done deal. Tom’s flirting with two of them while John’s getting pretty cozy with the third lady.

Tom leans close to John to whisper in his ear. “You think you’re going to go back to her place with her?”

“Yes. If you’re okay with that?”

“Sure. How about I grab a hotel room somewhere around here, and you’ll call me in the morning and we’ll meet up? That way we arrive home at the same time and can say we were out together all night.”

“Great idea. You’re not going to go with any of these ladies?”

“Nah. They’re not my type,” Tom says with a grin, giggling a bit at his own private joke.

“Alright. I’ll call you tomorrow then.”

* * *

Instead of staying in the hotel room once he’s checked in he goes to one of the cabs idling outside and asks if they know the way to the nearest gay club.

It proves to be very much _not_ his kind of place. It’s a pulsing dance club with scantily clad guys dancing in cages, strobe lights flashing and music so loud it’s vibrating through the floor, making conversation impossible. There are sofas and shielded off corners along the walls, and the clientele isn’t exactly what he normally would go for, many are bare chested, wearing makeup and neon coloured clothes, or leather with studs. The place is like the Blue Oyster and a rave had a lovechild. He prefers more lowkey bars where regular Joes with a preference for dick came to talk and flirt―like the place he left John at, but for gays. It doesn’t matter. On the surface he feels good. He’s drunk (and probably a bit high from the painkillers) and out to score. He’s no stranger to these places―he’s been to his share of them over the years―he just isn’t an avid fan.

He orders three shots at the bar, downs them straight after another, then heads for the dance floor. He moves with the beat. He wouldn’t call it music. It’s just a high bpm bass rhythm with occasional shifts that pumps, bringing the heart along with it. His head is spinning slightly, but not unpleasantly. It doesn’t take long before he’s drawn attention from an attractive twink with a ring in his brow, blond hair in spikes, a bead necklace and a green neon tank top in his late twenties. They dance tightly together, grinding, pawing at each other. The music's too loud to talk anyway. He bends to kiss the guy and feels someone else press against his back. It feels good and he’s getting hard. He’s sweating, his thighs aching from exertion. When he breaks the kiss somebody grabs his jaw softly and twist his head sideways and then he’s being kissed by somebody else. He just goes with it. It doesn’t matter that this is as far from the intimate lovemaking he prefers. It’s still fucking hot. Feels good. This is what he deserves. A selfish fucking disgusting faggot that can’t even be bothered to help a stranger in distress. He’s the lowest of low. Ugly and depraved. So what if he is? He isn’t worth more than this.

There’s at least four hands on his body now, maybe more. His shirt is being unbuttoned and removed. He manages to get a hold of it and ties it around his waist. The next kiss he receives is from someone with a tongue stud, a black guy. He closes his eyes, lets anyone do whatever they want with him. He’s a human piece of trash. Might as well act like it. It’s so effing hot. Feels good. He lets himself get lost in it.

* * *

When John calls at 5:30 he hasn't gone to sleep yet. As soon as he hangs up he turns around in bed and says to his companions “My husband will be here within an hour. I'm sorry, but you’ve got to go.” He doesn’t know their names. He hasn’t asked, but neither have they. One of them is the black man with a tongue stud from the dance floor. The night has revealed him to have all manner of interesting piercings. He’s tall, long fingers and long everything, with the plush lips common amongst people of his heritage. Tom thinks he could get addicted to to the beauty of the contrast between their colour. The near black of the man's skin makes even his own tanned skin look pale as alabaster. Would have, if the platinum blond twink in bed with them hadn't been there. The young guy is so pale he borders on albino, which he isn’t. In contrast, he made Tom appear dark. 

It had been totally random, who he ended up with. He'd kept his eyes closed most of the time in the club and focused on the feeling of hands, bodies, and mouths. He'd found himself in one of the sofas, doing things you shouldn’t do in public. A stray thought―wondering if Justin ever went to clubs like this―struck enough fear in him to make him say “Let’s move this to my motel room” and get up, hoping someone would follow, but not caring if they did. 

Three guys had, one of which had left already. This was carnality in its lowest, most dirty form. (Only counting carnality where the participants were willing, that is.) He’s never stooped this low before. Never gone to bed with more than one person. Never treated himself like a free-for-all. Always kept a modicum of self-respect. But what is there left to respect about him? 

His bed mates don't take offense at being thrown out. They get dressed, the blond guy slinking out without so much as a word. The black guy sits down on the bed beside him when he's dressed. “Hey, man. You probably aren't interested in a repeat performance. But if you are, give me a call, okay?” he says and hands a note with a phone number over. He winks at Tom, then gets up and leaves.

Tom stares at the note in his hand. He should throw it away and try to forget this ever happened. He gets up and walks to the desk where the trash can is. His wallet lies in the open on the desk. It’s a damned miracle he didn't get robbed of it. He opens to check everything's there and ends up pushing down the note with the phone number with the money he's got. He puts on his boxers and grabs the trash can, going around the room to collect discarded condoms and packets of lube. He won’t be able to hide that he’s had sex from John, and there's no way John would buy that there’s just been regular hanky panky going on, with how many condoms there are. He throws some tissues over the condoms in the can to hide them before putting the trash can back under the desk. He opens the window to air the room out, thinking he'll have plenty of time to wash himself up before John gets here. 

He referred to John as his husband since he hadn’t taken off his wedding ring and one of the guy’s had traced it with a finger at one point. He feels bad about implicating John as gay. It feels wrong, just like talking about Sam like he was a woman, even if neither John nor the guys will ever know the truth. He hates lying. _Hates it_. His whole life is a lie. Lying has become such ingrained habit they slink out on their own behalf. It’s disgusting. He’s disgusting. Worse, he’s trouble keeping up with his own lies. It’s hard to remember to whom he’s said what. There’s always something. Lying with his body language to cover his attraction to men. Lying about how he got bruises and scrapes from Grace’s temper flares. Lying to show off a perfect exterior so no shame befalls his family. Lying about where he’s been and what he’s done. Lying about how he feels inside.

_Please, dear Lord and Father, strike me dead._

He’d go to hell, but there’d be no more lies. At least in hell they’d know him for what he was. A bad husband. A bad father. A bad friend. A pervert.

He’s takes a painkiller to stave off anxiety and chases it down with a miniature bottle of Jack Daniels from the minibar. 

He gives a start when there’s a knock on the door. Heart speeding up as he goes to open. John stands leaning heavily on the door post. His hair is gorgeously mussed up, his eyes red and eyelids heavy, his shirt is only halfway tucked in and several buttons wrongly buttoned. He takes one look at Tom, peeks into the room then looks back at him, an impish smile blooming on his face, his warm brown eyes twinkling with mirth and making Tom’s belly flutter. “Well, well. Somebody didn’t go to sleep last night. You _dog_.”

“Yes. What are you doing here already? I thought you’d be here in an hour. It’s been ten minutes,” Tom says, smile firmly in place and biting nervously on a nail.

“Sheila lived a whole lot closer than I thought.” John stumbles inside the room, closing the door on the way in and chuckling. He takes a look at the bed and the pillows and blankets on the floor. “Looks like your lay just left. Did I just miss her?” he asks. 

“Yes.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Why? Did you want to share?” Tom hears himself joke.

John makes a face and laughs. “ _No!_ God no. That would be gross.” He drops down on the bed, bouncing a little. “I was just curious what kind of girl you'd go for since Sarah and Monica weren’t good enough for you.” He laughs again and shakes his head. “Sharing. Pfft. Come on. What kind of dirty skank would let herself be used like that anyway? She'd probably have all kinds of diseases. Gross.”

Tom wants to throw up. John’s sitting on the bed where he's just fucked three guys, sucked three cocks, not even knowing the names of the guys. He scowls. “None of that chewing gum mentality in my presence, please,” he chastises. “What’s the difference between if the woman is with one man one night, and goes home with you the next, or if she's with the both of you the same time? I find that kind of mentality disgusting. Our women are told they’re only worth something if they please men. At the same time they’re supposed to be virginal and pure. I can't abide with such hypocrisy. Either you respect the woman you indulge in carnal sin with, or you don't fuck around. If you’re afraid to catch something you use a condom or abstain. It’s that simple.”

John’s been watching Tom ranting with a dopey smile. He blinks lazily. “You’re right. As usual you're right. I mean, I wouldn't say no to two ladies at once, so it only makes sense that a woman might harbour the same fantasy.” He gets up from the bed and drunkenly stumbles up to Tom, grabbing on to his shoulder and using it for support. “I'm so damned glad I got you to remind me how to be a decent human being. You make me a better person. Man, I love you.” John lets go of Tom to hold up his hands in defence, palm out. “As a friend, I mean.” He grabs Tom's shoulder directly again after his ‘no homo’ display, swaying a bit, dopey smile back in place. 

Tom's uncomfortably aware that he’s wearing only boxers. For once he wishes John wouldn’t touch him. It feels like he's sullying John just by proximity. 

“And in theory,” John goes on. “I wouldn't mind sharing anything with you. But if we fucked the same woman our junk might touch and…” John shudders and makes a disgusted face. Tom’s face reflects the nausea, but it has nothing to do with being averse to the thought of touching John’s junk. “Man, I love you to bits, Tom, but I'm no fucking faggot, you feel me?”

Tom can feel his mouth stretch and his teeth bare in a smile. Another one of his default lies. Smile for the cameras. “I'd never think you were,” he says and John nods contentedly. He’s about to step away from John when John suddenly looks down, grabs his hip, and laughs. 

“Wow, Tommy. Rough night, huh? Seems you found yourself a wildcat.” He lets go and steps away grinning. 

Tom looks down to spot the bruises. “Shit. Do I have any other marks?” he asks and looks up at John. John walks around him, studying his torso. When he’s behind Tom he _giggles_. Tom makes a face. “Hickey?” He asks.

“Nu-uh,” John asks and puts his fingers between Tom’s shoulders, dragging them downward and outward, barely grazing. It elicits an involuntary shiver from Tom. “You should keep your shirt on for a few days at least. These scratchmarks can’t be confused for anything else than what they are,” John says, sounding almost impressed and removes his hands.

“ _Shit._ ” Now that John points it out, Tom remembers bending the platinum blond twink in half, pounding into him like a pornstar while feeling nails dig into his back. “No hickeys?” 

“Nah. Just bruises and scratchmarks. Big girl, was she?” John fits his fingers against another set of bruises by Tom’s hip, making Tom’s heart leap in alarm. He spins around and slaps John’s hand away with a frown. 

“None of your business. I don’t kiss and tell,” he says and snatches his shirt from the floor, quickly putting it on and buttoning it. At some point he’d had a T-shirt on underneath, but it didn’t make it back from the club. His cheeks burn crimson in shame. He’s afraid John will figure out why his fingers matches so well with his bruises.

John just sniggers. “Alright, alright. Can you check me?” he says and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

 _How is this my life?_ Tom thinks, takes a few steps back to sit down heavily on the bed to watch his oblivious best friend undress. Had this situation been exactly what John thought it was, it had been comical. Two pathetic adult men in dead relationships, drunkenly checking each over for tells of their infidelity against wives who no longer wanted to see them naked to begin with. (Or _at all_ for that matter.) All to uphold a facade of perfection.

He’s drunk enough to still find it funny how much John is struggling to get out of both button down and tee, and can’t stop from laughing when John nearly tips over forward pulling the T-shirt over his head. John grins sheepishly once he finally gets his shirts off. He holds them in a hand and spreads his arms to his sides like he’s saying ‘ _Here I am in all my glory. Come look at me._ ’

“You’ve got a hickey on your left pec,” Tom heaves himself up to get closer while John blinks down on his chest, spots the hickey and touches it gingerly. Tom motions for him to spin around, and he does. John’s naked back is one of the most attractive sights offered to him nowadays, bar Justin. The broad shoulders, the tattoo, and the soft layer of fat covering the otherwise fit body that gave him the groove along the spine that practically begs to run a finger along. 

There’s no filter between impulse and doing and Tom catches himself when he’s already placed his finger over the spine. Instead of pulling it back he curves the other fingers inward to drag his nails lightly downward, forgetting how to breathe for a second when goosebumps erupts along his touch. He has to remind himself that just because John finds it pleasurable doesn’t mean it’s anything sexual about it. Just like he’d gotten goosebumps and shivered when Jessi used to tickle a straw of tufted grass or a feather over his back when she was a child. 

“I’ve got a scratch mark too?” John asks in surprise and peeks at Tom over his shoulder.

Tom gives him a shiteating smirk. “You do _now_.”

John throws his head back in an incredulous laugh. “You cheeky asshole!” He says as he grinning spins around to give Tom a smack on the arm with the back of his hand.

Tom laughs and steps away. “ _Kidding_. I don’t leave unwanted marks.” (Although he had earlier tonight, not bothering about the marital status of his bedmates.) “Now give me a moment to wash up, and then we can go, okay?”

John turns his back towards the mirror over the desk and looks over his shoulder at his reflection as Tom heads for the bathroom. There’s no mark and he hears John chuckle as he closes the door behind him.

He makes short work of showering (without wetting his hair) and towelling off. He catches sight of himself in the mirror and pauses to study himself. It eludes him how he―recently turned 38―can still manage to draw the attention of good looking men (and women). It’s a mystery how young guys in their late teens―like Justin―still finds him desirable. It’s abhorrent really, that they do. Men his age shouldn’t lust after the young, and the young shouldn’t give them― _him_ ―the time of the day. 

There’s nothing he likes about what he sees in the mirror. He's been losing weight along with losing his appetite. He still spends time at the gym, but his muscle mass had diminished since he retired. He looks tired and worn. Wrung out. Spent.

Tonight he had made himself exactly what people thought gay people were. Hedonistic, filthy people only out to fuck without a care. He is disgusted by himself. Yet it had felt good physically to just let go. The sensory overload is so intense that he can still feel phantom touches along his body and his lips are raw and tingling from kissing. 

He’s fallen so _so_ far. Gone against all his Christian values, and keeps going. This isn’t him. He’d thought himself better than this. This is not what he wanted in life. Everything about him is fake. 

_”...You make me a better person. Man, I love you…”_

If John knew what he really was he'd be appalled and disgusted. John’s a good man. He might have flaws and some views Tom doesn’t agree with, but he kept an open mind and was quick to correct himself when the flaws were pointed out. Like giving Justin a chance, or trying to change his thinking pattern when it came to women. They were brought up to believe women were beneath men―something Tom thinks is bullshit. But changing one's behaviour is hard, and he likes that John corrects himself when sexist remarks slip out. 

_”...I love you to bits…”_

_You wouldn't if you knew the truth, John. Nobody would. I'm human waste. I can't sink any further. There’s nothing left in me worthy of love. I'm unlovable._

_Sam_.

Sam knew him. He’d never lied to Sam. And Sam loves him still. He'd said so after the derby. He fervently wishes he could go back in time. That he could say yes when Sam asked him to run away with him. Sometimes the wish is so strong that the future feels like one big black hole. But they were never meant to be.

He wishes he had his gun here. If he did, he’d pull the trigger on himself right now―consequences to his family be damned. They’re better off without him anyway. 

He ruffles his hair and turns away from the hated figure in the mirror. He puts his boxers and shirt on before leaving the bathroom. A meagre armour against the man in the bedroom. 

John’s made the bed and is lying on top of it. He’s put his clothes on, and once again failed to button his shirt correctly. He looks up at Tom with a goofy smile, and eyes full of affection that makes Tom's belly do flip flops. This could have been such a beautiful bromance. Still is, as long as John remain oblivious. At least from John’s side. It isn’t John’s fault Tom’s pining for another kind of intimacy. It’s not the sex Tom’s pining for. It’s sleeping curled up together, a kiss goodbye in the morning, cuddling in front of the TV, and strolling with fingers entwined. Normally he'd be thinking wistful thoughts of lovemaking too, but not after tonight. He’s had his belly full of sex already. He’s just pining for closeness.

“Christ, John. You come home with your shirt buttoned like that, your wife will know straight away,” Tom says with a chuckle and goes to put socks and pants on.

John sits up and stares down on his chest giggling. “I can’t help it. It’s a very advanced procedure considering I'm drunk as fu―very drunk.”

Tom smiles to himself at John’s self-censorship around him. “Get up, I'll fix it for you.” He puts on his shoes while John gets unsteadily on his feet and unbuttons his shirt again. Tom pockets his wallet, walks up to him, stops too close, and buttons the shirt from the bottom and upward. 

“I feel like a toddler. Lucky you're here to take care of me,” John says, still with that goofy happy-drunk grin. 

Tom meets his gaze, lips quirking in a meaningful smile all of their own behalf. “I'll always take good care of you. All you have to do is ask,” he says. He hears it in his tone, it's in the muscles in his face, the way their eyes are locked and how his knuckles brushes against the thin fabric of John’s tee with each button he pushes through its slit. An unintentional double meaning. A promise and a tease. Yet he holds John’s warm brown gaze, adding weight to the innuendo. He doesn’t know why he does this. Why he acts so recklessly when he’s already angsting over the risk of being outed. It’s like a part of him _wants_ John to know. Wants him to get outraged and throw a punch, or, or, _something_. Or maybe it’s just the alcohol and painkillers making part of him detached enough to be himself. 

This time, the flirtation doesn’t pass John completely by, drunk or not, even if he doesn’t really get it. There’s a look of insecurity in his eyes. He swallows, licks his lips, and looks down on Tom’s hands deftly but slowly working his buttons. He doesn’t step back or say anything to deflate the tension that sprung up, just remains passive, looking vaguely uncertain. 

Tom’s a bad, bad man for not stepping back. For enjoying the fact that John remains put without a protest. The silence would be awkward, if Tom acknowledged that it was. But he’s acting like this is as it should be. Which probably adds to John’s uncertainty and possibly leaves him wondering if he’s misreading Tom. He might be afraid to voice his concern in case Tom didn’t get the flirty vibe he’s projecting, and John’s the only one perceiving it as gay. He finishes the last button and smooths down the shirt. An excuse for getting to feel how John’s chest and shoulders fit his palms. “There. All done.”

John looks up again and lets out a nervous laugh. “Thanks. Whatever would I do without you?”

_Not be perved upon, for one._

“Get caught,” Tom says and gives him a cheeky wink.

John laughs again, but no longer nervously. He surprises Tom by throwing an arm around his neck, despite the tension that had been there a few seconds ago. “You got that right. Now let’s go home,” he says and pulls Tom towards the door, supporting himself on Tom.

In the cab on the way home, John falls asleep on Tom’s shoulder, snoring softly. Tom twists so John’s leaned more against his chest than shoulder and leans his head against the top of John’s. There’s a hollow ache in his chest, he feels so god’s be damned filthy. At the same time he needs this stolen moment of closeness. It’s like band aid, barely covering an open wound. A strip of duct tape keeping his engine from falling apart totally.

Tom don’t think it’s possible to fall any further from grace. 

At least his life can’t get any worse than this. He can’t sink any lower...

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be some happiness in the next chapter. I think we all need it.


	18. God's Wrath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom's parents come over for dinner.
> 
> Tom attends a shooting competition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for horrendous inaccuracies in how a shooting competition/gun fair is conducted. I scream "Alternative Universe" and run away if challenged. ;) I'll do more research as he goes to bigger competitions. 
> 
> **Warning:**  
>  \- homophobia

## Summer 2014

“Nana!” Jessi throws herself into hugging his mother, something that always gives Tom a bitter taste in his mouth. It causes a mix of feelings. There’s a selfish part that doesn’t want to share his children’s love with his parents, and an envious part thinking ‘ _Why couldn’t you treat me that way?_ ’ He’s also grateful his parents _don't_ treat Noah and Jessi the same way as they did―still do―treat him. If they had, he’d forbidden them to see his kids no matter what God or anyone would think of him. 

Tom stands patiently while his father unloads the stuff they brought on him, watching Jessi hug his mother and kiss his father on the cheek. Noah comes shuffling in a much more sedate pace, bringing Justin in tow. As usual his mom plasters on a fake smile and his father makes a faintly disapproving face at the sight of Justin. They've only seen each other in church before and this will be their first real introduction. Justin passively stands back while Noah hugs his grandma and gives his grandpa a handshake. Then Justin’s dragged forward by Jessi and proudly introduced as her best friend. His parents politely shake hands and introduces themselves as Charles and Marion. When everyone goes to the kitchen his father stays back, drying his hand off on his pant leg like he’s just touched something filthy. “Why are you letting your children have friends like that, Thomas? They might get ideas. Not to mention how people might talk.”

“Justin’s a very bright and devout young man, dad,” Tom answers testily and follows the others to the kitchen, to not get caught in a discussion with his dad about Justin. He ignores the way his father tssks disapprovingly behind him. Justin’s just inside the kitchen doorway and might very well have heard the exchange in the hallway. Tom briefly meets his gaze (bright blue today) and frees a hand long enough to give him a short encouraging squeeze on the shoulder, then goes to unload his burden on the counter. The kitchen is abuzz with chatter as his kids tell their grandparents what they've been up to since the last visit. He gestures to Jessi to get out of the kitchen. She catches sight of his head gesture and she drags the rest along. Justin remains standing in the doorway, arms crossed and shoulders hunched. 

“Do you need any help, Mr. Rainsborough?” he asks. 

Tom doesn’t. The less help he gets, the longer he can stay away from his parents. “Sure. Help me put this away,” he says and indicates the groceries his parents brought. As much as he wants to avoid his folks, he wants to shield Justin from them even more. The relieved look in Justin’s posture and face is worth it. They work in silence. Tom always feel tense when his parents come to visit. In the back of his mind he goes over a checklist of what he might get criticised for today. Tom can hear that Grace has joined the others. If there’s one thing he’s eternally grateful for, it’s that she’s never told his parents that he’s cheated. “Justin, can you set the table in the dining room?” he asks when they’re done and goes to stir the sauce on the stove.

“Yes, Sir.”

When Justin reaches for the plates in the cupboard beside the stove Tom bumps him with his hip. Justin freezes and looks at him in surprise. Tom leans sideways towards him. “Hey, don’t let them get to you,” he says hushedly and winks conspiratorially, giving Justin a lopsided smile.

Justin flashes him those enchanting dimples. “No, Sir.”

It’s a vain hope. His parents are greatly responsible for setting the tone in the congregation. They are both very domineering and set in their ideas. Justin’s every piercing’s like red to a bull for them.

Justin flits in and out of the kitchen while Tom finishes cooking. He can hear both Grace and Jessi asking if he wants help and offering to take over. Justin declines, happy to help. Everything goes well enough even for Tom until they’re all seated, and Grace stands up to start cutting the roast.

“Grace, dear. You should leave that to your husband,” his mother says sweetly. 

“Mom. My wife is capable of handling a knife as well as I am. She’s been doing that by herself during all the years I was away.”

“But you’re at home _now_ , Thomas,” his father says disapprovingly, implicating that he should act like a husband should.

Grace shares a look with him, asking him not to argue, then sits down. It’s utter bullshit. Grace is a strong, capable woman. She shouldn’t need to bow down to the old ideas of what was a man’s duty and what was a woman’s. But since Grace has already given in there’s no point in arguing and he cuts the damned roast.

“Why don’t we let Justin do the honour to say grace?” Tom’s father says, honing in on Justin and smiling politely. Justin has been caught in a quiet conversation with Jessi and Noah and looks up in surprise. 

It feels like a trap to Tom. Like his parents are searching for faults in Justin. Justin is unfazed by the offer. “Thank you, Sir,” he says, takes the hands of Jessi and Grace on either side of him, waits for the rest to join hands, and bows his head. “Bless this family, for taking me to their heart and welcoming me to their home and table. Bless this food to our bodies, Lord, and let us hold you in our hearts. In Jesus name we pray, Amen.”

Tom almost breathes in audible relief when it's over and no condescending remark comes.

They talk while they eat. “The dinner is delicious, Grace. Well done,” his mother says. 

“Thank you, but Tom’s the one who cooked it.”

“Oh?” His mother says, his dad throwing him a look of veiled disapproval.

“Yes. He cooks most of the meals nowadays, so I have more time to devote to our church projects.”

“He does? Well…. It tastes good anyway.”

Tom tries not to gnash his teeth. He reminds himself that he loves his parents. He does. But if they could stay away from him he would love them a lot more.

“Did you watch the local news today?” Noah asks, a worried frown between his brows. “There’s been cases of the Croatoan virus in town.”

“Yes. We saw it. It’s God finally having enough of all the impure living. It’s the fault of the heretics and sodomites. God's doing a cleansing,” his father says, cutting his food in neat little pieces before putting it in his mouth.

“Oh, come on, grandpa. I heard old lady Gena fell sick. She’s a good person. If God’s doing a cleansing he’s got shit for aim,” Jessi chimes in, chipper and perky.

“ _Language_ ,” Tom chastises.

“God’s wrath is not to be trifled with young lady. We have to pay for the despicable sins of the sodomites and their ilks. Stray too far from His path, and these things happen, dear,” his mother tells Jessi.

Justin makes a disbelieving snort, stopping the motion of lifting the fork to his mouth. “With all due respect, Mrs. Rainsborough, but you can’t honestly think God would unleash pandemonium on the world because some people love people of the same sex? Most queer people are good people, just as devoted to Christ as we are. You can’t put homosexuals up there with real sinners like murderers, child-molesters, rapists, and sadists?”

Noah’s the one to speak up, voice and expression grave. “It’s a sin, Justin. They turned away from God the day they chose that lifestyle. If they truly believed in the spirit of Christ, they wouldn’t choose to be gay.”

Justin’s staring at Noah as if he’s grown horns. Tom feels cold all over, heart beating rapidly, a ball of icy worms twisting in his gut. He barely feels the utensils he’s holding and he’s so nauseous it’s hard to continue eating. His motions are mechanical and the food in his mouth seem to grow with each chew, making it hard to swallow. He’s never heard Noah express any view on the subject before. It shouldn’t surprise him, the words coming out of his son’s mouth. He’s a good Christian boy with good morals. But still...

“Oh, my God! Don’t be a moron. It’s not a chosen lifestyle, Noah. They can’t help any more who they fall in love with, than you could help having a crush on Miss Englewood teaching phys ed last year,” Jessi says with an exaggerated eyeroll and a light shove on Noah’s shoulder.

“Don’t call your brother a moron, Jessi,” Tom chastises automatically. He’s receiving a disappointed look from his father, based on Jessi’s opinion no doubt. She probably would not be so quick to defend the perverted if she knew her father was one of them.

“Titus 2:11-12,” Noah counters, cheeks red from being called out on the crush he’s apparently had on a teacher. “ _For the grace of God that brings salvation has appeared to all men. It teaches us to say ‘No’ to ungodliness and worldly passions, and to live selfcontrolled, upright and godly lives in this present age,” Noah quotes. “It’s a lifestyle. They chose it.”_

“Levictus 18:22,” Grace adds. “Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination.” Both his parents nods approvingly.

“Let’s not forget the first Corinthian letter, 6:9-11,” his father fills in, reciting favourite words, that Tom has heard so often he could probably recite them while delirious with fever and half unconscious. “Know ye not that the unrighteous shall not inherit the kingdom of God? Be not deceived: neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor effeminate, nor abusers of themselves with mankind, Nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners, shall inherit the kingdom of God...”

Tom stops listening. He’ll get a private lecture later, he’s sure. Jessi’s generous opinion (bless her for it) has seen to that. He can feel Justin watching him, see it in his peripheral vision, but doesn’t meet his eyes. The discussion goes on, whether the Croatoan virus is to blame on the depraved or not. Jessi argues that it can’t be, being supported by Justin, since the only one to die in their town is a six months old baby, and she could hardly be guilty of sinning. He barely hears anything of it, more than Noah’s repeated arguing for it being the fault of homosexuals and others of ‘their kind’, parroting what he’s been fed by his grandparents and the congregation since he was a newborn. Every time Noah opens his mouth Tom wishes the ground would just open up and swallow him, sending him straight to hell. Because it hurts. It hurts so friggin bad to hear what Noah thinks of him, even if he’s right.

“...Thomas?” 

“Huh?” They’re all looking at him now. Whatever his father just asked him, he missed it.

“I said, do you think God is punishing mankind or not?”

“I’m humble enough not to fool myself into thinking I know the thoughts of the Lord. But my go-to part of the bible, when I’m in doubt, is Luke 6:37. ‘ _Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven._ ’”

 _Because it means I may not be saved from hell, but at least I’ll be forgiven_ , he doesn’t say.

“Yeah! That’s my dad!” Jessi exclaims like he’s just won a victory for her. His mother gives him a _don’t-sass-me-boy_ look, but it’s worth it because of the pride in Jessi’s eyes. Even Grace gives him a smile. She may hold the basic values of his parents, but she’s got a big heart, and believes everyone can be saved. Justin’s still watching him and he's got a creeping fear that Justin will say something―anything―wrong. But Justin keeps quiet. 

“Be as it may,” his mother says, “There’ll be an extra sermon tomorrow due to the virus. I'm expecting you to be there, Thomas.”

“He won’t,” Grace says, hiding her anger exceedingly well. “And neither will the kids. Tom’s competing in Montana tomorrow. The kids are accompanying him there.” 

“Really? Competing in what?” his father asks. 

“Competitive shooting. I bought a gun a while ago,” Tom answers. Not many knows. It’s not something he brags about. 

“Now that's a sport for a man,” his father says approvingly. 

“Why don’t you come along to cheer me on? It'd mean a lot,” he asks. 

“We'd love to, Thomas. But we can't miss the sermon,” his mother answers, his father nodding along, looking remorseful. 

_What did I expect?_

Nothing new under the sun. The games his parents had come to watch live over the years, were few and far between. Why would this be any different? 

“Can I come?” Justin asks, Noah perking up and chiming in a “Yeah, dad. Can Justin come too?” with obvious excitement over the prospect of having their friend along. 

“We’ll have to ask your parents. But I appreciate any support I can get,” Tom answers and smiles at Justin, getting one of those beautiful dimpled smiles in return. 

“I don’t think it's going to be a problem. Not with you there and John’s going too.”

“I thought you hated guns?” Jessi asks. But she looks pleasantly surprised, not accusatory. 

Justin just shrugs noncommittally and pokes at his food. Tom has mixed feelings about him joining. But mostly he feels grateful. He likes having an audience.

“Does the assembly ban not encompass gun competitions?” his mother asks. 

“The assembly ban is a disgrace! First they take away hockey, baseball, football, and concerts just because a few people get the sniffles. What next? They’re going to stop us from going to church?” his dad exclaims, greatly peeved. There had been a nationwide probation installed against large official gatherings like sport or music events, to prevent the Croatoan virus from spreading. This far it only included the largest events. It hit all major sports leagues hard. Some of the first to have fallen prey to the virus was a hockey team, being forced to leave WO to the Angels. Hence some driven politician had blamed it all on sports (idiotic) and gotten those temporarily banned until the danger was over. Only it made no sense since not all big gatherings were prohibited. Nor had it helped, since the virus kept spreading. What had been taken as just a flu, expected to pass within a month or two, had escalated to talks of possible pandemonium and featured on every news broadcast.

“Grandpa! People are dying. It’s not just sniffles,” Noah protests upset. 

“ _Pfft_. Just a couple of babies and old people. Nothing to stop traffic about,” his dad scoffs.

“ _You’re_ old,” Noah counters resentfully.

Both Grace and Tom emits amused snorts and hides smiles behind their hands.

Tom’s dad scowls. “Noah, respect your―“

“― _Elders_?” Noah deadpans dryly and arches an eyebrow. 

This time Grace laughs out loud. “I’m sorry, Charles. I agree with my son. While it would be a shame if they’d prohibit us to assemble in church, you are a bit crass at the moment. And it's not only the old and young who’s died. Perfectly healthy people has fallen sick and died too.”

“As for church,” Justin chimes in, “nobody can stop us from worship, even _if_ they insist on a total assembly ban. God lives within us, always. If he doesn't, going to church won't make a difference. You can pray wherever you are.”

“Well said,” Tom says and smiles at Justin, at the same time as Jessi says “Exactly!” Justin sends Tom an almost shy smile, with a faint twinkle of modest pride in his eyes.

“But what if it really is God's wrath at work here? We should make stricter laws against homosexuality, with stricter punishment, to ensure we don't get punished for the acts of perverted people. It scares me that the virus has been around for months, and no one has found a cure yet. At the same time the virus gets a firmer hold each week. Now it's here. What if we get sick?” Noah says, looking worried.

His parents supports Noah’s sentiment while Jessi’s outraged and makes a passionate speech about not punishing people for things they can’t help. Grace is somewhere in the middle, talking about showing the homosexuals the ways of God by mercy and prayers, as well as praying for those who’ve fallen ill, whoever they might be. 

Tom could have told Grace that if you could pray the gay away, he'd be straight as a flagpole. 

The only ones to sit quietly for the rest of the discussion is Justin and Tom himself. Noah’s unwitting feelings about him makes it hard to get words out and food down, even long after the topic has changed. It’s nothing new. He’s grown up to hear passionate speeches about Sodom and Gomorra, about how homosexuals are the root of all evil―along with other queer, perverted people―and to see his parents lead rallies to ‘make them change their evil ways’. Some would appreciate the irony of it. How his parents got a perverted son. They’d say Charles and Marion were punished by God for being judgemental. They’d completely ignore the fact that the only one being punished was the child in question. And if they _truly_ believed God loved homosexuals equally, they wouldn’t see getting a gay son as a punishment to anyone, nor something parents should be scorned or pitied for. So―whatever they proclaimed out loud―they were of the same opinion as his parents, that there was something inherently wrong about gays.

* * *

Later that evening Noah and Justin’s in the den, playing Xbox, while Tom’s sat in the living room with his parents and Grace. He sits in the armchair with a laptop on the armrest, trying to shut the conversation out by watching old clips of himself on youtube. They’re really old, from back in his German days. On the screen he and Stefan passes back and forth, attacking the goal. He shoots an absolutely beautiful shot that is nothing but net and the camera zooms in on him and Stefan sharing an exhilarated hug with triumphant smiles, before the rest of the team swarms them. His chest aches with all the could-have-beens in the old memories it brings back.

Jessi comes into the room and heads for him, plopping herself into his lap. “What are you watching?”

His first impulse is to snap the laptop shut, as if he’s been caught watching something bad. “I’m watching old clips from when I lived in Germany. Here, watch.” He hits replay. “There’s me,” he says and points on the screen. “And that’s Stefan Xavier. We were an amazing team and had a lot of fun together.” 

The shot of them hugging and smiling comes up. “He’s cute. Is he single?” Jessi quips.

“Hey! He’s as old as I am, pumpkin,” Tom says in a mock chastising tone. Internally he’s amused. Jessi seems to have inherited his taste in men.

“Never date a hockey player, honey. They’re nothing but trouble,” Grace cuts in jokingly.

“Don’t tell her that, Grace. She’ll date nothing but hockey players if you do,” Tom jokes warningly towards Grace.

“Yes, why shouldn’t I? The best man I know is one,” Jessi says grinning and gives Tom a kiss on the cheek.

Tom leans away with a goodnatured eyeroll. “Alright, pumpkin. Now you’re sucking up. What are you after? A pony? A new car?”

“Can I have one?”

“No.”

“ _Please_?” Jessi isn’t after a new car. They’re just goofing around.

“Ask your mom.”

“Dammit!”

Both Grace and Tom laughs at Jessi’s fake pout. Tom’s parents look troubled though.

“Jessica. You’re too old to sit in your father’s lap. It’s inappropriate. People may think you have an unnatural relationship,” Tom’s mother says, using her Kind Voice™.

The statement hits Tom like a bucket of cold water. He’s been too busy worrying about people suspecting he was gay to even consider anyone would ever think _that_. Even Grace seems a bit taken aback. Jessi’s eyebrows shoot upwards in surprise. “ _Wow_. Nana, you have a really dirty mind to even be thinking thoughts like that,” she says. “Do you honestly mean that, what people with some fucked up―“

“ _Language._ ”

“― delusional ideas... caused by twisted, perverted, incestuous fantasies, may or may not think, should stop me from showing my dad I love him?”

“It’s unseemly, dear.”

“No. It’s not. If I want to hug my mom, dad, or brother, sit in their lap or kiss them on the cheek, I’m going to do it, no matter what anyone else thinks of it.” Jessi stands up. “I’m raised to tell right from wrong. There’s nothing wrong with this. The only one whose judgement I fear, is God’s. _He_ knows there’s nothing wrong with showing affection within a family. _He_ knows there’s nothing ‘ _unnatural_ ’ about it. What other people think is irrelevant. I’m not in this life to win some warped popularity contest, trying to gain the approval of small-minded people who spend their life seeking faults in others.” With that, she sticks her nose in the air and strides out of the room like a glorious blonde queen.

Despite the ‘talking to’ he’s going to get from his parents about this, he’s never ever been so proud of his daughter as he is now. His heart is swelling with the feeling. It takes a lot of courage to stand up to his parents like that. Not only that, Jessi challenges the whole establishment of their town, by claiming not to care what people think. He wonders what they did right to make her so strong and self-assured.

Nevertheless, the worry about people thinking wrong things about him and his daughter makes him vastly uncomfortable. That is another pebble added to his burden of worries.

* * *

The mood in the car to the competition is high the next morning. The kids are excited to come along and Tom has a swarm of nervous butterflies in his stomach. Noah’s in the front seat with him, Justin and Jessi in the back. Justin isn’t wearing lenses today so Tom keeps sneaking glances at his beautiful minty green eyes in the rearview mirror. He hopes his sun shades hides how often their eyes meet. He almost wishes Grace would have joined them, just because it would have been nice to do something the whole family together. But she is no longer married to him, she is married to the church.

They’ve plugged a phone into the car speaker system, playing music. Apparently the kids had the foresight to spend the evening putting together a playlist where they’d chosen a song each, circling so every third song was their choice. It made for a very eclectic playlist with songs from very different genres. He’s happily noted that some songs are from his own playlist. He don’t know who has chosen those, but he’s grateful.

He finds himself singing along with a catchy tune. “... _All the other kids with the pumped up kicks. You better run, better run, faster than my bullet_.” He quickly shuts up when he catches up on what the song’s about. “Who chose this?”

“ _Justin_ ,” Noah and Jessi says in unison.

“What? It’s catchy,” he says with an apologetic smile.

“Well. You’re not _wrong_.”

“Besides, it fits. We’re going to a shooting competition after all,” Justin says with a cheeky smile and flips out the tip of his tongue and stud out to rest between lip and teeth. 

Tom chuckles and makes sure to focus on the road. Mostly he listens to the kids chatter about everything from sneakers, to what this and that person said about this and that, political problems, kittens, memes (whatever that is), and food. They flit from topic to topic without pause and he doesn’t cut in too often. There’s a song that comes up a lot more often than any other song. It seems to be a current hit for this summer, and it equals some sort of ‘stop and drop’ for the kids, making them stop talking to sing along. “ _Why you gotta be so rude? Don't you know I'm human too?.._ ” He sings along too. The good thing about having three mostly adult kids in high spirits in the car, is it makes for a pleasant journey. There are no ‘are we there yet?’ every five minutes, punctuated by ‘I need to pee’ and whining. Although, ‘I’m hungry’ does come up, so they stop for burgers and fries, stretching their legs and use the restroom. Then they’re on the road again, now trying to tell each other funny jokes.

“Dad! Tell one of your dad jokes,” Jessi encourages.

He has honestly no idea what constitutes as a dad joke. He presumes it’s supposed to be a bad joke, and he’s a dad, so that’s probably all it takes. “Two men walk into a bar. The third one ducks.”

Noah looks confused for a beat, Justin sniggers and Jessi manages one of her giggle-groans before Noah catches up and laughs. Since bad puns equals dad jokes, Tom goes with it. “Past, present, and future walked into a bar.... It was tense.” , “There's no I in denial.” , “A man tried to sell me a coffin today... I told him that's the last thing I need.” , “Don't kiss your wife with a runny nose. You might think it's funny, but it's snot.” He doesn’t care if the jokes are freakishly bad. The kids are laughing and he feels like a king. The only downer in this whole car ride is the little twang on his heart string when he passes the exit road that would have taken him to the mountains and twin towns. Despite that, he’s feeling upbeat and positive when they finally reach their destination of their six hour journey. John’s already there, waiting by the parking lot. 

The competition doesn’t start for another two hours. Tom signs in, then goes to explore with the rest of them. It’s much more than a competition. There are booths with people selling or promoting guns, rifles, holsters, even customisation artists. Stalls filled with books, jewelry, hunting gear, clothes and food. It’s not a place he wants to let his kids loose at. He reminds himself they’re adults or next to it. If they don’t understand the evils of weapons by now, just telling them won’t help. As Jessi so prominently displayed yesterday, she’s got a firm grasp of what she believes is right and what isn’t. Hopefully Noah knows not to get seduced by all this either. They split up and explore each on their own at first.

Jessi is delighted by a booth marketing guns and accessories for women. The guns are pink, metallic, turquoise, bedecked with sparkles, painted with Hello Kitty! And so on. They sell holsters for women who wants to carry concealed weapons under skirts and such, along with holsters made to be accessories in their own right. When Tom spots her, the 30-something blonde guy running the booth has come around to show her the proper grip on a small pink revolver and Tom makes his way over there.

“Keep your hands where they belong while you help my daughter,” Tom warns as he approaches, not really threateningly. The guy and Jessi seems to get along a bit too fabulously, and he’s too old for Tom’s liking. (Not that it’s his right to choose who Jessi flirts with or dates, but still…)

Both the guy and Jessi turn their heads to look at him.

“Da- _ad_ ,” Jessi whines with an eyeroll.

“Don’t worry, Sir. I’m gay,” the guy says with an amused smile.

“Dad, he’s probably more into _you_ than me. Don’t worry,” Jessi says with a mix of fondness and exasperation. Her easy acceptance stumps him, just as Noah’s judgement had cut him yesterday.

“Or you’re just saying that, to be able to cop a feel. I’m just warning you to not overstep,” Tom counters towards the man, still in a friendly tone. 

The guy smirks lopsidedly and tilts his head, humour in his eyes. “Got it. Dad’s got a gun.”

“ _Go away_ , dad,” Jessi says.

Tom turns as if to leave, keeping eye contact with the blonde guy. Instead of answering Jessi, he addresses the guy’s last statement. With a cocky smirk he slowly says “Indeed, he _does_ ,” before he turns around and leaves. Jessi’s delighted, outraged laughter behind him keeps him from fretting about dropping innuendos in front of his daughter. He’s sure she got the double meaning, but it's likely she doesn't think he knew he was dropping it. Or if she did, her laughter told him she didn’t think he was serious. And really, it could be construed as a threat veiled in humour too.

He spots Justin by a booth where an engraver artist has set up shop, so he walks over there. ChHL is a big deal in these parts so he’s frequently recognised. He gets stopped twice by fans on his way to Justin. Once to take a photo, once to write an autograph. Justin doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to get away from there and is still in place when Tom finally makes it there. He claps Justin on the shoulder. “You holding up?”

Justin looks up from the bb-gun he’s holding. “Yeah, sure. Have you seen this? My thoughts of guns aside, this is brilliant! I mean, look at the detail. Perry and his father do these by hand,” he says, indicating the artistic rendered handles, guns, and bb-guns in the booth, along with the 20-something guy behind the table.

The guy, Perry, has more piercings than Justin, black spiked hair, and a Marilyn Manson shirt. He smiles at Tom. “I do tattoo motives too, and airbrush. Dad is more old school. He does a lot of our western motives and filigree. I do more contemporary stuff,” he says with a southern drawl.

“You have no problem working with your dad?” Tom asks.

Perry chuckles. “One would think, huh?” he says and gestures at his own looks. “Especially if you met my pa. He’s a real redneck, complete with trucker cap an’ plaid. But no. We get along. Lost ma to cancer and that brought us together.”

“My condolences. It must be tough.”

“Nah. It’s alright. Ma’s with God and it was a long time ago.”

Tom looks at the custom grips. “Do you take commissions or only sell these?” He asks, thinking of the grip with the cross on, owned by the man at his home range.

“I sure do. We deliver all over the States. Anything particular you had in mind?”

“Yes. A cross” He might not have placed such order if Justin hadn’t drawn him here and got him talking to Perry. But the pieces on display are really beautiful, so he decides to give into temptation. Sometimes you just have to splurge, instead of going around feeling envy.

* * *

There is more than one competition going on. Rifles were up while they came. There were competitions to shoot while moving. (Tom watched that, because it looked like fun, and he might be tempted to try that discipline one day.) There was a quick draw competition, that appealed to Noah, but not at all to Tom. Then there was accuracy, Tom’s discipline. Several elimination rounds later it’s down to him and another guy. In theory, he’s already a winner if he comes in second since he’s a beginner and the other guy is not. In _theory_. He hates to lose. Hates it something fierce. Especially when there are people depending on him to do his best and prevail. This is a rapid fire round. Not his strongest suit. He can hear the kids and John cheering through his electronic shooting ear muffs, along with hockey fans who has recognised him. It’s always a heady feeling to have that support, and he draws strength from it. He lines himself up, controls his breathing. Keeps his eyes on the light that will tell him he can fire. It turns green and he fires off his round as fast and accurate as he can, slamming the button as soon as he’s done. He’s barely a half second quicker than his opponent. The question is, who had the best accuracy.

He takes the ear muffs off. Time slows down and his heart is hammering with nerves while he waits for the judges to check the outcome. His palms starts to sweat from the suspense. How long can it really take?

“... _and the winner is_ ….”

It feels like the announcer takes an hour to continue.

“... _Thomas Rainsborough, from Washington State!_ ”

“YES!” He fistpumps in triumph, laughs, and turns to shake hands with his opponent. He barely hears the rest of what the announcer says, getting an adrenaline rush of pure exhilaration. All he wants to do now is go over to the spectator side and hug the hell out of his family and friends, who’re jumping up and down behind the divider, clapping and cheering. He’s presented with a check, a diploma, and has earned points towards his Excellence-In-Competition badge. (It’s still far off. You earn points in every competition you enter if you finish in the top 10%, but you need to enter a lot of competitions to actually earn the badge.) He’s also qualified for several other competitions this year, by winning this. None of that matters right now. He locks his gun in its case, shake hands with all the officials, and hurries towards the crowd with a huge smile in place.

He hates that the thought of how it may be perceived flashes in his head when Jessi pounces him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. But there's no time to fret because Noah’s hugging him before  
Jessi has even let go. And then John’s there, grabbing his cheeks and pressing their foreheads together, excitedly yelling “Yeah! You, the man!” 

Like bros do. 

Nevermind how Tom’s belly flutters with thrilled butterflies and he almost panics that it will show, when his vision is filled with John’s brown eyes and their noses brush.

It _is_ what bros do. It means nothing apart from a strong sense of companionship, sharing the joys of a victory. It’s just in his own mind this is too close―he’s the one getting the impulse to kiss (he doesn’t). It’s the effin crush acting up. He hates how he has to over-analyze everything the moment it happens, in case it will be perceived wrong. (In case of John and Justin, the fear is that it will be perceived _right_.) 

This time he doesn’t get the time to overthink. Justin’s there, shoving John aside to give Tom a hug and congratulate him. Jessi’s got her arm around his neck, telling someone to the side “This is my dad,” with a proud smile. Noah’s beaming.

He feels absolutely great. It reminds him of ‘the good old days’, even if the wonderful feeling of over-exertion is lacking. It’s still the high of winning, of being somebody to be proud of. Even with the vile gun as the conduit of his pride and joy. 

There’s flashes of memories from when Jessi and Noah’s been at his games in the past. How they’d beam with pride every time he scored, made a great pass, or thwarted the other team. How five year old Noah had cried, trying bravely to hold it in with wobbly lip and huge worried eyes when he’d had to leave the ice one time, bleeding from his eyebrow after getting an errant stick under his visor. That particular memory is one that still made him want to laugh. _Not_ because Noah cried about it (Noah’s worry about his loved ones health had stayed intact since he was a toddler), but because of six year old Jessi comforted him with “It’s just a flesh wound. He’ll walk it off,” while hugging Noah. They’d had the seats directly behind the bench and some of Tom’s teammates had heard her too, making that a regular quote used within the team anytime any of them got hurt.

Maybe they end up over-celebrating Tom’s victory, making it bigger than it is. Maybe it isn’t so strange. He and John are both caught in relationships turned toxic, making every day bleak. Justin’s battling constant judgement, both from the world in general and from his parents. Jessi is soon leaving home, leaving Noah in the dust with two parents who barely speak with each other without an audience. They’re having a great time together, and they deserve it.

They get three rooms at a hotel, then go out to eat, have a few glasses of champagne (soda for Noah), and go out dancing at a disco afterwards. None of them drink much, but the high spirits causes them to feel happy-drunk anyway. They head back to the hotel by midnight. Noah and Justin shares a room, Jessi gets her own, and Tom shares a room with John. John and he ends up lying in their beds talking into the wee hours of the morning, like tweens on a sleepover. Luckily Noah and Jessi offers to drive, so both of them spends the journey home sleeping in the back seat of their respective cars.

He’s glad that he decided to not back down on the decision to compete, even if the argument that followed had made Justin aware of the problems he and Grace are having, and his kids had heard him swear. Sometimes some conflicts are worth it.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reminder that Noah's young and never to his knowledge met a gay person. It might make a difference if he does...


	19. Stuck In A Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom is slowly cracking under the pressure of his own misery. The town is hit hard by the virus, and religious fervor and homophobia is at a all time high. Noah has bought in on the ideas the priest and Tom's parents are spreading, and however much it hurts to hear Noah talk, Tom still believes in what his son says, driving his own self-loathing to new heights. It has consequences for how he behaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:**  
>  There is a scene in this chapter with Tom and Grace, that some of you may find upsetting. I'd tell you why but it'd ruin the plot, and the scene is important. So please, whatever you feel about it, just muddle through it. It's not that long and very important for Tom's state of mind.
> 
> **Notes:**  
>  Also, I've got photoshop (yay!) that allows me to work with moving gifs. Therefor I've re-cast Noah and replaced the old family-banner with a new one. Either take a look by going back a chapter, or [look at it here](http://impalajunktrunk.tumblr.com/post/146417728846/from-left-to-right-tom-grace-jessi-noah) if you're curious.
> 
> And if you've never heard about the hanky code, [Check this out](https://67.media.tumblr.com/6f0b78961773ced183eadf5d763287be/tumblr_nlcb6x91SJ1tv8i7ko1_1280.jpg). [Or this.](https://flaggingopinicusrampant.wordpress.com/hanky-code/)
> 
> And I know I don't say it enough, but I'd like to extend a massive thank you to my Beta, who helps me find holes in my story, and shows me if the psychology behind the behaviours can be seen by the reader too. She's such a rock, and I'm so grateful to have her! Thank you [mizz_kitty21](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mizz_kitty21/pseuds/mizz_kitty21)!

* * *

* * *

## Summer 2014

It’s the hottest summer they’ve had for years. It’s been weeks since the last rainfall, and it had been meager. There’s talk of initiation a watering ban in the whole county. Some believe that it’s part of God’s punishment of the wicked, what with the Croatoan virus spreading, especially in the poorer parts of town. The trailer park in the outskirts is the worst off. Almost every family living there has someone who’s fallen sick. Several people in town are dead already. They’ve had other ailments making them extra sensitive, but it’s still a tragedy. The whole county is boiling. Literally and metaphorically.

Their neighbourhood is yet to be touched by the virus. Nobody knows the reason why, but piousness gets the credit within the congregation. Of course, poor people are part of the congregation too, and attendance at sermons had seen a great upswing, as well as several new faces. Congregation member or not, the poor were still affected like the rich ones in the Rainsborough neighbourhood were not.

But life goes on, and in the Rainsborough household the summer heat still brings poolside frolicking and merriment amongst the kids. Like Jessi says; “If Satan lights the fires of Hell in our yard, we might as well roast marshmallows.”

Tom counts it as a blessing.

He drives as close to the door as he can before parking, and gets out of the car. It’s with a sting of sadness he realises that the three row SUV soon won't be necessary anymore. The kids are soon leaving the nest. He opens the tailgate of the 2012 Chevrolet Traverse and grabs one of the pack of bottled water, then goes into the house, leaving the tailgate open. He makes his way into the kitchen where Jessi, Noah, and Justin are sitting with four other friends. Abigail, Clara, David, and Joseph Tom recounts to himself, hoping he got their names right. Sometimes he forgets. Several of his kids’ friends have the same names. He thinks this Abigail is the one called Abby for an instance. The other one is called Gail for short. But few have become such a big fixture in the Rainsborough family as Justin.

Grace is by the sink, peeling potatoes. She looks up as he comes in and greets them all, heading for the fridge with the water. “You were gone for long?” she says, lilting the sentence upward into a question.

He puts the water in the fridge and goes to give her a peck on the cheek. “I know. The water was sold out, so I went to Walmart instead. Bought as much water as I could fit in the car so we won’t find ourselves without so soon.” 

That’s another thing. The doomsayers had spread enough fear that many people were bunkering up on essentials. The shops in their town were running out on stuff faster than they could get it delivered, so Tom more often than not went to the big Walmart outside of town instead. He’d started bunkering up on things too. _Not_ for fear of the Apocalypse, but because he didn’t want to run out of things they needed due to other people panicking. The laundry room doubled as their storage.

“Good call,” Grace says and gives him a little closelipped smile. She looks so tired, and Tom worries for her. They are practically living separate lives. Gone were the days when they’d tell each other about their day or ask for advice if something bothered them. He has no idea what’s weighing on her. She’s not sick, just tired. And when they’re in public together he can see how she plasters on well-faked perkiness. He knows the routine.

_Smile for the cameras._

She barely even had energy to keep up her anger and chill towards him.

Tom slides an arm around her waist and gives a little squeeze to show his support, like he used to do back in the days. Surprisingly, she leans towards him and nudges back with her hip, like _she_ used to do. It doesn’t seem to be faked, and he aches and hopes. He misses these small moments they used to have once.

He turns towards the kitchen table where a heated discussion is in full swing. “Hey, kids. Make yourself useful and go unload the car,” he says.

The kids get up from the table and pile out of the kitchen without stopping their discussion, and only Justin acknowledges his request with a smile before leaving the room with the rest of them. But Jessi sticks her head back in. “Want me to park the car too?”

“Sure. Thanks,” he answers and throws her the car key. He turns back to Grace. “You want me to take over?”

“Could you? I promised the Smiths to stop by,” she answers, giving him a grateful look.

“Of course.” He smiles at her.

“Thank you.” He gets another closelipped smile while she puts down the peeler. She gives him a peck on the cheek and walks out of the kitchen. He stands looking after her for a while because nobody was there to see that peck, so she didn’t have to give it to him. Maybe there’s hope for them yet. Some days he can barely stand to look at her, but he doesn’t _want_ it to be that way.

* * *

A goulash stew is puttering on the stove and he’s sitting at the table, sipping a tumbler of whiskey, numbed by a painkiller, when the kids come back from doing whatever they did after unloading the car. “Hi dad! We went for ice creams. Bought one for you and mom too,” Jessi chirps and throws him a Magnum almond.

“Mom's visiting the Smiths, so put hers in the freezer. Dinner’s ready in twenty minutes. I'm sure I'm supposed to deliver a lecture on desserts before dinner right now,” he says while peeling the wrapper off the ice cream, then bites into the crisp layer of chocolate. 

“Why do you think we didn't ask beforehand?” Noah says with a snigger and sits down. 

All of the kids chuckle, Tom chuckles along with them and mouths a thanks, raising the ice cream to indicate that he appreciates the gesture. They’re young adults. They know what you should and shouldn't do. Now it's up to them to choose what they want to do with it. As a parent, there’s so many times when you have to refrain from doing what you want, in order to set a good example. But as the kids got older, some things were no longer necessary to keep up the charades about. Like ice cream just before dinner.

Justin comes in carrying two chairs from the dining room, placing one beside Tom and the other on the other side of the table so they all will fit. He sits down on the one beside Tom and scoots closer so Abby can sit next to him. There’s some shuffling of chairs while they all sit down. Justin’s leg rests against Tom's under the table. Tom doesn’t move away from the contact.

“The Smiths? Didn't Jonathan Smith fall sick some days ago?” Abby asks. 

“Who's he?” Clara asks.

“Their grandpa,” David answers. 

“Maybe he's gay, and that's why he got sick,” Clara suggests.

“It doesn’t work that way. You get sick whether you're gay or not,” Joseph clarifies. “It’s not like AIDS.”

“You can get HIV even if you're straight. Just look at Africa,” Jessi chips in.

“But the priest says it's the faggots fault,” Clara insists. 

“Yeah, it probably is. But he means that the faggots brought this punishment on us by insisting on sinning. Everyone is getting punished, not just them, for failing to bring them to the light,” Noah explains. “The only way everybody who falls ill could be gay, is if the virus _turned_ you gay. Some of the sick are babies for God’s sake, and babies can’t yet choose a lifestyle.”

Clara laughs. “The faggot disease,” she says, getting a snigger from Joseph. 

“In that case, I hope _I_ never catch it,” Joseph says with a shudder. “Can you imagine _wanting_ a dick up your ass? That’s _disgusting_!”

David grins. “I'll leave imagining dicks up asses to you,” he jokes, getting sniggers all around. 

Sniggers turns to laughs around the table while Joseph sputters and makes a grossed out face. “I’m not a faggot!” Tom and Justin keeps quiet the both of them, eating their ice creams and following the discussion. Tom wonders if Justin too, is currently having worms of anxiety and pinpricks of fear in his body. Whether Justin has got him figured out or not. 

The area where their legs touch under the table, feels more like a handhold of mutual support than a discreet come on from Justin’s side. The priest kept riling everybody up, placing blame. Because of it, homosexuality had become a frequent topic even in the Rainsborough household. 

“Why are they called faggots?” Abby asks. “I never understood that. Were they once famous for making bobbin lace or something?” Her demeanor shows it’s a serious question, not witticism.

Abby is a sweet child. Naive and sweet. She’s skinny―reedy, not blessed with female curves like Jessi―and pale. She’s one of those poor people who need tons of sunscreen not to turn painfully red and blistering in summer. Her hair is so blonde it’s almost white, and anytime she removes her makeup her pale lashes and brows turn her nondescript. Justin’s not forgiving about her naivety. He snorts in disdainful amusement.

“Faggot is a bundle of sticks and branches bound together to be used as kindling, fuel for a fire, or a torch,” Tom says. All the youths turn their attention towards him, like he’s some kind of all-knowing wiseman. If only they knew. “Back in the days of the witch hunts, they used to burn women accused of witchcraft at stakes. Homosexuals and effeminate men were thought so little of that they were thrown in with the firewood, rather than to waste stakes on them.”

The reaction around the table varies. Noah looks shocked and utters a “That’s _horrible_!” while Joseph and Clara laughs, Abby’s eyes go round, David looks troubled, Justin’s eyes narrows suspiciously and Jessi blows an amused raspberry.

“I call bull,” Jessi says smugly.

“Is it true?” Abby asks almost at the same time.

Tom smiles and directs his answer towards Abby. “I don’t think so. More of an urban legend. The word faggot wasn’t used about gays until the 1920’s. There are two theories as to _why_ it became synonymous with homosexuals. Back in the 16th century, the word faggot was used as an abusive term about women, mostly older women. Old, poor, widows in particular. It was common for them to make a meager living out of selling firewood. The word was continued to be used as an insult, and came to include men too.” Tom licks the last of the ice cream of the stick and throws the stick through the room to land in the sink. The kids have stilled to listen once again. 

_Listening to me tell them the history of ‘my people’. Pfft. I should just have kept my mouth shut. I’m so stupid._

“What’s the other theory?” David prompts. 

Tom takes a sip of his whiskey before he continues. If they ask, he’ll tell them everything about the hateful persecution of people like him, even if he’ll never admit that he’s corrupted himself. “Some believe the term comes from the British practise of fagging at boarding schools. The younger students were called fags, and were made to serve the older ones, very much like the hazing in fraternities. Doing what exactly varied from school to school. It could be anything from shining shoes to serving tea. It’s also said that many fags were sexually abused by the seniors, the so called ‘fag-masters’. Personally I think this is where the term comes from.”

“What? So they were, like, raped?” Abby asks.

Tom shrugs and does a little noncommittal headnod. “Possibly.”

“But that means they were victims. Calling homosexuals fags or faggots would be mocking the victims of rape,” Noah states.

“Such is the nature of slurs,” Tom says. “They’re meant to hurt and harm. Just like the word nigger. While it comes from the word negro, meaning black in Spanish, it’s what the slave owners called their slaves. So anytime us whites use it, it’s dehumanizing, but when blacks use it, it’s satirical, reclaiming the power the word has over them. The LGBT people have reclaimed the word queer very successfully that way.”

“Queer isn’t even an insult. Not really,” Justin says.

“It is here,” Clara says with a miffed expression. “If you’re queer you’ve obviously turned your back towards God.”

“People have called me queer for having piercings and tattoos and I’m still as devoted to Christ as anybody. It means unconventional. Nothing else.”

“Maybe where you come from, but when we say it we mean it as an insult. Not that we’d call _you_ that. We know you’re straight and normal,” Clara says and gives Justin a dazzling, flirty smile.

Justin rolls his eyes with a headshake, his tongue stud playing its * _brrt, brrt, brrt_ *-song inside inside his mouth. Under the table his leg presses more firmly against Tom’s. Definitely in search of support.

“Whatever, man. I liked the first version the best. I’m calling gays kindling from now on,” Joseph says sniggering, making Clara laugh and both Jessi and Noah look outraged.

Jessi opens her mouth to speak, but Noah forestalls her. “JoJo! You’re being an awful human being. You’re talking about burning people alive,” he says. Bless him for having the decency to see the evil in that at least.

“Oh, come on. You’re always talking about how gays should be punished and brought to the Light,” Joseph says, frowning in annoyance at the reprimand.

“Yeah, but not burned alive,” Noah says and launches into a description what needs to be done to get the homosexuals in line.

Tom drains his tumbler and gets up, tuning the discussion out. He’s heard enough of his son parroting his parents’ view of homosexuals. It made him nauseous to hear. He pours himself a new glass of whiskey and picks the ice cream stick out of the sink, then throws it away in the bin under the sink. Justin comes to stand beside him. “You want help setting the table, Sir?”

“That would be appreciated. Thank you, Justin.”

Justin gives him a smile, flicking his tongue stud out between his teeth. Tom wants to whisk him away to the den, to spare him from hearing any more of the judgement being cast by the table, and show him exactly what they’re being judged for. Instead he just returns the smile and grabs the ladle on the counter to stir the stew pot. Justin sets to work, and no sooner has he put glasses on the table before David grabs his glass and walks to the sink. He turns on the tap, fills his glass with water and raises it to drink. Tom’s hand snaps out to stop him. “You shouldn’t drink that. The whole fridge is full of water and soda. Drink that instead.”

Justin opens a cupboard next to them to take out plates. Before David has time to respond Justin asks “You drink the tap water, David?” with curiously raised eyebrows.

“Um, yeah? Why not?”

“Because it’s full of chlorine. It tastes disgusting,” Justin answers in a neutral tone.

“Yeah, well. My parents aren’t as well off as yours are. Tap water is good enough for us,” David answers sullenly. He’s from the poorer part of town―albeit not from the trailer park―and he doesn’t like to be reminded of it. You can’t see it when you look at him. He wears the same kind of brand clothes as the rest of his chosen friends. But Tom knows he works two jobs to keep up appearance. He’s very cost aware, and doesn’t take things for granted.

“Be that as it may, but when you’re here it would make me feel like a bad host if you had to drink water I wouldn’t want my family to drink. So please, feel free to raid the fridge,” Tom says and smiles encouragingly at David.

“Okay, cool. Thanks Mr.Rainsborough.”

It’s a reminder of how blessed Tom really is. He sends a short prayer of thankfulness to God, for not only being able to provide for his family, but for any guest that crosses his threshold.

Later, when he’s down in the den, lying on the couch listening to music, he hears somebody coming down the stairs with hesitant steps. He sits up and peers over the backrest of the couch. It’s Justin. He looks apprehensive, which makes Tom instantly worried. “What’s wrong?” he asks. 

Justin stops at the base of the stairs, looking caught red handed doing something he shouldn’t. “Nothing.”

It’s a lie. It’s in every inch of his posture. There’s no bluster, no sassy cockiness, no defiance. Only insecurity. He looks so much smaller than he usually does. Something has happened. 

“The others coming down too?” Tom asks. 

Justin shakes his head. 

“In that case, you want a drink?” Tom points at the half empty whiskey bottle. He wouldn’t want to share it with the rest of the kids, not when they’re so many. But he wants Justin at ease. 

“Yes, please.”

Tom gets up and pours a tumbler of whiskey for Justin, who’s still hovering uncertainly by the base of the stairs. Tom makes a come hither gesture with his head and holds out the glass. Justin comes and takes it. 

“Thank you, Mr.Rainsborough,” Justin says with a shy smile and takes a sip, his lip piercing clinking against the glass. That shy smile is highly unfair―head slightly bowed and peeking from under lashes―when Tom’s trying to get the boy to relax to tell him what’s wrong. He doesn’t want to be thinking deplorable thoughts right now. 

“Don’t mention it. I appreciate the company. Please, join me,” Tom gestures at the couch. He goes to sit back down and Justin follows his cue.

Despite the heat wave it’s always a bit chillier down here in the basement. They’re both wearing summer get-ups. Tom, a short sleeved button down with checkered grey shorts, worn with a belt. Justin wears a tight black tanktop and black cargo shorts, which―unlike the baggy monstrosities he used to favour as pants―is showing off his ass in a very favourable way. Come to think of it, Justin hasn’t worn anything that Tom or John would disapprove of, since that time they got drunk together. Tom isn’t bothered by the colder temperature, but Justin’s skin prickles and his nipples peaks. Tom hates himself for noting these things.

“So the others aren’t entertaining enough for you?” Tom asks, making conversation.

Justin snorts. “No. They keep talking about the virus. Right now they’re discussing whether vaccines are evil or not, or if they cause autism, and I just…” Justin shakes his head and takes another sip of the liquor. “I’m tired of it.”

“It happens in these parts every time a virus goes on a rampage. But this is the first time we’ve been hit around here, not just gotten to read about it in the news.”

“Yeah… hey, can I ask you a favour?” the apprehensiveness is back when Justin looks up at Tom. He’s removed his lenses. Earlier today his eyes had been dark brown, now they’re that beautiful minty green hue that Tom adores.

“Go ahead.”

“Could you… could you give me a lift to John this week, and pick me up unless he can drive me? My parents wont.”

“Your car is broken again?”

Justin looks away and shakes his head. “No. It’s just…” he takes a deep breath to steel himself, puts his feet on the edge of the table in front of him, and fiddles with his key chain. “I was attacked yesterday at the parking lot. Three guys. They were throwing stones and shouting that it was people like me that had caused God’s anger, sending the virus.”

Tom sits up straight and reaches for Justin before he can stop himself. “Were you hurt? Are you okay?” he says worriedly, stopping at grabbing Justin’s shoulder, before he does something embarrassing like trying to look for injuries or hugging him close.

Justin looks up with the corner of his lip pulling into a lopsided smile. “Yeah. I ran. I’m fast. Got to the car and managed to drive away with nothing more but some scratches in the paint.” He turns serious again. “But it was scary. I’m, I’m used to people being assholes about my looks. But this was different. I think they _actually_ wanted to _kill_ me. For real.”

“Did you tell your parents?”

“Yeah. They said…” Justin looks down on his keychain again, puts his glass on the table, and fiddles with the chain with it with both hands. “They said, I have myself to blame, and, and, maybe I’d finally learn from this experience. And,” his lips start to quiver, shoulders hunching in on themselves, “that they’d pay for tattoo remova―“ His voice breaks from a sob. He blinks rapidly and lifts his hand to cover his eyes, trying to hide the tears. “Sorry. I just…”

“Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay, Justin.” That Justin starts crying gives Tom the excuse he needs to do what he wanted to do from the very moment Justin said he’d been attacked. He pulls the young man into a tight embrace. “It’s okay. And of course I’ll drive you. You’re important to me. To everyone in this family. Should I for any reason not be able to give you a ride, Grace will, without a moment’s hesitation. We want you to be safe. We all love you, Justin.”

Justin lets go of the keychain and hugs back. When Tom says ‘We all love you’ something just breaks, and Justin starts crying in earnest. Tom’s heart breaks along with Justin’s, because he’s currently holding a child who’s been told by his parents that his life is less important than him following their rules, and Tom can relate. He wishes no child would ever have to feel that way. He remembers all too well how painful it had been waking up after his suicide attempt only to get a scolding about ruining their reputation. It hadn’t gotten out. Only Grace and the people at the hospital knew, along with a few Tom had told over the years. But the pain of feeling so utterly unloved remains.

Tom strokes one hand over Justin’s back, cups the back of his head protectively with the other, and rocks him gently. Justin’s shoulders shake with each sob, and Tom bends his neck, puts his lips against the top of Justin’s head and mumbles comforting words. “There, there. Let it out. It’s okay. I’m here for you. It’s okay…”

It doesn’t take very long before the crying starts to subside to erratic sobs and sniffles. Justin lets go of Tom, frees himself and straightens up, rubbing at his eyes. “Sorry, I… this is so embarrassing,” he says, not meeting Tom’s gaze.

“No, Justin. If somebody should feel embarrassed, it’s your parents. Wait here. I’ll get you some paper tissues.” Tom gets up and goes to fetch a roll of toilet paper from the toilet. He comes back, grabbing the whiskey bottle as he goes, and hands Justin the paper before sitting back down. 

Justin flicks a grateful look at him as he takes the paper. “Thanks,” he says, then blows his nose and dries his eyes. He puts the paper on the table and grabs his glass just to drain it. Tom refills it without asking as soon as Justin puts it down again.

“So your parents reaction to you getting attacked were to suggest tattoo removal?” Tom asks.

Justin nods. “Yeah. They said that if I’d only look and act like a normal person, things like this wouldn’t happen.”

Tom takes a sip from his own glass. “They’re wrong, you know that right? I hope you don’t do it. Your ink is far too beautiful to be removed just to fit in. But it’s up to you.”

Justin looks up and gives him a grateful smile. “Thanks. I know it doesn’t change anything. Not really. The problem’s in my head anyway. I don’t conform to their expectations on me. I doubt they’ll change their mind even if I _did_ remove my tattoos. We didn’t exactly get along before I got them either.”

Which is probably the reason he got them in the first place, acting out in rebellion rather than trying trice as hard to please like Tom had. 

Tom reaches out and rubs Justin’s back with a hand. Justin closes his eyes and sways with the motion, leaning a little more in Tom’s direction with each sway his way. “Have you told Jessi and Noah?”

Justin answers without opening his eyes. “No. They think I’m so badass. I’ve been in more fights than most of my friends, but I’m still just, just a swimmer. And this is different. Usually people just want to rough me up a bit. Put me in place. But these guys wanted to kill me. I could see it. And the size of the rocks they threw… _Jesus_ , it was like they were trying to give me a biblical stoning! I’m no pussy, but I was so afraid. Am, so afraid. I can take a couple of punches, but what do you do with people who won’t stop once you’re down? I don’t want to tell Jessi because I don’t want her to think I’m a coward. And Noah… you hear how he talks. I don’t think he’ll do anything to me, but I don’t want to put ideas in his head.”

That hurts to hear. It means Justin’s afraid of his son, who’s supposed to be his friend. Tom’s convinced Noah is just as good hearted as always. When he spoke, he spoke with religious fervor rather than hate and anger. It’s still worrisome. “None of them would think you a coward. And no matter what Noah’s saying, I’m willing to bet my life he’d never hurt you. Both of them would come to your defense just as soon as I would.”

“Probably. I still don’t want to tell them. I know this sounds ridiculous, but I feel like a pretty cool guy when I’m with them, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“It doesn’t sound ridiculous at all. But they’d still think you’re cool even if they know you’re afraid. Though I’m not going to force you to tell them. Are you okay with telling John? It’d be a good idea, so he doesn’t leave you alone in public.”

Justin opens his eyes and gives him a pleading look. “Could you tell him? I feel so… so…” He’s so heartbreakingly pretty. Nose and cheeks red from crying, hair in a disarray, eyes startlingly green in the pink eye-whites. Tom just wants to wrap him up in his arms and make everything better again.

Tom doesn’t wait for him to find the right words. He can imagine. Ashamed. Emasculated. Embarrassed. Pitiful. Fear does these things to you. And Justin’s right to be afraid. Right now he’s only a target because of his deviant looks. But should it get known that he’s bisexual, he’d be in deep shit. In these parts he might very well get lynched for it. It has happened before, it’s just a matter of time before it’ll happen again. Tom smiles encouragingly. “Of course. I’ll talk to him when I drop you off tomorrow. Make sure he doesn’t do a big thing out of it.”

“Thank you, Mr.Rainsborough.”

“No problem. You want to watch a movie? A comedy perhaps?”

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

Tom reaches for the remote and puts on Dogma, because the concept of Alanis Morissette as God is hilarious to him, and anything Matt Damon touches is gold. Some in the congregation finds the movie blasphemous and offending. Personally, Tom finds that if you can’t laugh at yourself (or in this case - Christianity) you’re taking things way too seriously. And in situations like the one they're in, when the virus has breathed new life into religious fervour, it's a relief to watch something that ridicules it.

He drains his glass of whiskey and pours himself another one. He’s just buzzed, not drunk, but he wishes he was hammered. Justin still has enough not to need a refill. For once he decides to forgo all the rules and caution he’s set for himself, and when he leans back in the couch again he puts an arm around Justin’s shoulder and tucks him in against his side. He justifies this action by that it’s what he would have done if his own kids were afraid, heartbroken, and distraught. And it is. Sometimes you just need to be held. He could even come up with how to put his reason to words, should anyone come down here and find them.

Justin melts into his side, curling into the touch.

The boy had just been told by his parents, that their concern for his life didn’t extend further than his conformation to their wishes. He needed consolidation, care, and to feel safe and loved. Just as much as Tom has need to provide all those things. Tom bends his arm holding Justin so he can stroke his hair with the palm of his hand.

All of that he can justify with paternal instincts, should he be challenged on the matter.

As the movie wears on, and the content of the whiskey bottle dwindles, he does things he _can’t_ justify with paternal instincts though. Like bending his fingers to scrape his nails lightly against Justin’s scalp, causing shivers and goosebumps, and turning his head to rest his lips against Justin’s temple. He doesn’t acknowledge that they end up more snuggled together anytime either of them shifts to drink, or that his heart is racing.

There’s no doubt that his tiny advances are welcome, with how the back of Justin’s fingers, resting against Tom’s leg, starts stroking back and forth discretely and yet boldly at the same time.

There’s an underlying tension building. Tom’s sure they both feel it, and he knows that he’s erasing any benefits of doubts about whether or not he’s into guys, by doing these small things, blurring the lines. And maybe he’s much drunker than he thinks, because he finds himself puckering his lips ever so slightly, to deliver a tiny kiss where his lips are rested against Justin’s temple. 

It’s bad. 

It’s really bad. His heart is thundering in his chest, drowning out all else. It’s just a bare whisper of a kiss. Justin’s probably wondering if he really felt what he felt.

When the credits start rolling―against all reason and common sense―he does it again. Less discreet this time. Lips slightly parted to bleed the unmistaking warm press of a kiss against Justin’s skin. He’s questioning his own actions while doing it. What in the Lord’s name is wrong with him? Why is he set on self-sabotaging? It’s like he’s deliberately setting himself up for discovery. It would be devastating, more dangerous than ever. If anything, he should be _more_ careful.

And yet, he places a third kiss on the temple. Justin didn’t miss these kisses. Tom knows that for how Justin’s ribcage expands with heavier breaths through his nose. Justin, with very slow movements, twists around and raises his head to come face to face with Tom. They’re inches apart, breathing each other’s air.

For a moment, Tom sees it. Sees himself closing the gap to kiss. Seducing the young man. He could picture Justin coming down to the den every night when the others slept. He sees himself showing Justin exactly what an experienced man could bring to the game. He pictures driving Justin where he needs to go, just to park somewhere secluded to make out or trade blowjobs. If Justin’s afraid, he’d know to keep it secret. He pictures Justin helping Grace set the table, mere hours after he’d been fucked into the couch, smiling politely. He pictures the both of them sitting side by side in the pews, listening to the priest deliver a fire and brimstone sermon about the evil of homosexuality. Lord help him, but it turns him on. It turns him on enough that he can feel his nethers waking up, slowly starting to fill.

There’s a pregnant pause where they’re just looking each other in the eye. Ice blue meeting mint green. Then Tom speaks up. “You should go join your friends.”

If Justin really wants this, he has to push for it. And if he does, Tom won’t deny him. Not right now. He’s dumb and foolish. Weak. Lord knows he’s so damned weak. All Justin has to do is lean in for a kiss, or say ‘no’, and Tom will fall, ripping Justin into damnation with him. Corrupt by touch, and taste, and word.

Time stands still. Drags. Tom’s expression neutral, eyelids heavy, Justin’s searching. Then, Justin averts his eyes, bends his neck. “Yeah… alright, Mr.Rainsborough. Thanks. For all this. I needed it. Sir.” Justin frees himself and stands up, looking slightly dejected. If he really has meant every come on he’s thrown Tom’s way, he isn’t reading Tom very well right now. But then again, it’s for the best.

“Don’t mention it. I’ll be at your service tomorrow at 8, driving you to John.”

“Thanks.” Justin turns to leave. Tom doesn’t _want_ him to go. He wants him to be brave and as stupid as Tom. While Justin walks towards the stairs Tom pulls the handkerchief he always has stuffed down his left back pocket out, turns around, gets to his knees in the couch, and leans his elbows on the backrest, facing Justin’s way. He holds the handkerchief―black, with white checks―in his left hand. It’s a desperate move in his own eyes. The chances Justin would even understand the significance is zero to none. But maybe? These days, there’s internet. He might know. Tom bought it way back. He always has it with him, and has never used it for anything but the purpose it was bought for, to be worn in his left back pocket, peeking out when he went cruising in normal clubs. (Not that often, when gay clubs were available.) But the hanky code was dying already when he got in the game, and Justin’s young.

Justin stops at the base of the stairs, looking back at him, hesitating. His eyes flick to the item in Tom’s hand, but as predicted, there’s no sign of recognition of its significance. Tom’s practically declaring openly (all things considered) that he’s a safe sex top, and it flies right by Justin. Justin opens his mouth to say something, closes it again, then dejectedly says “Good night, Mr.Rainsborough.”

“Sleep well, Justin.”

When Justin’s gone up the stairs and disappeared, Tom gets up (a lot more unsteady on his legs than he thought. Damned be drinking while sitting down), goes upstairs, closes the door and locks it from the inside, then goes back down. Anger and self-loathing is boiling within. He’s not angry at Justin. Oh, no. Never that. Justin being a good boy―obeying when told to leave―is a good thing. He’s angry at God and life in general. He has no _right_ to be, but he is anyway. It’s so unfair and he doesn’t know how much longer he can take this. Grace’s coldness, the hate wave in the congregation, the feeling of utter loneliness, the sexual frustration. It’s too much, and it’s getting to him.

At least he can do something about the sexual frustration. He puts porn on and masturbates. Aggressively and down to business. He respects and cares deeply for Justin. He does. But when he thinks of him it’s lust that is the main feeling the young man evokes. Pure and simple, _lust_. Justin is porn all by himself. Not like Sam, who he loves heart shatteringly much, and dreams of spending an eternity of mundane everydays with. John too, triggers a wish for everyday closeness beyond ordinary camaraderie, even if he can’t see them lasting forever. But Justin he just wants to bend over any flat surface and fuck. He imagines doing just that and comes pretty quickly with a hiss. 

He spends the rest of the evening wallowing in self-loathing, for falling so low.

* * *

“ _Are you fucking stupid?_ ”

“Language!” Tom chastises Jessi from the other room. Jessi and Noah has been bickering increasingly since Tom's parents came to dinner. Maybe he should be worried about it, but he’s just getting annoyed. They are mad at each other one moment, then laughing together the next. Nothing to get riled up about. (He hopes.) Siblings are supposed to bicker. When Noah hangs out he does so with his sister. They keep common friends. Their closeness is more unusual for siblings than the bickering is. It’s the damned virus that does it. Noah has become more withdrawn, more devote, spending a lot of time in church or praying. He blames the faggots just like Tom’s parents. Jessi rebels against the idea. So they bicker, and it’s getting on Tom’s nerves.

Tom changes his shirt for a clean one and goes upstairs to the attic. He knocks on the door and waits for Grace to say “Come in!”

He steps inside. Grace is sitting by her desk, wearing a white blouse and a khaki skirt. Her blond hair has bleached highlights by the summer sun. She looks beautiful and tired. She raises her head from whatever she's writing and gives him a questioning look. There was a time he was happy to see her. He isn’t anymore, but he wishes he was, and he’s thinking of the peck she gave him the other day. Such a little act, yet it’s all it took to give him some hope there might be an end to this ice age.

“Hey honey, I was thinking…” Tom says, walks up to her and crouches down by her side, supporting himself with an elbow on her desk. “Let's do something, just the two of us. Maybe go away for a weekend? Visit a spa, eat good food, drink good wine, just relax and try to learn how to laugh together again.” 

Grace looks like she's about to launch into a tirade for a second before her features go soft. “I would like that, Tom,” she says remorsefully. “But the timing is very bad, with the virus spreading and more people getting sick.”

“It's okay to choose yourself sometimes, Grace. Take a break from doing God's work for a while. I'm sure he'll understand,” Tom says, taking her hand on the desk and giving it a squeeze. 

Grace huffs in rueful amusement and turns her body to fully face him. Her eyes are warmer than they'd been in a long time. “It’s not God I'm worrying about. I just feel like it'd be a bad idea to go now. People are scared or sick. Worse, the Reverend keeps putting blame on people in his sermons, and it worries me. It don't know whether he's right or not, but I do know that nothing good will come out of it. And as much as I love your parents, they're feeding the hate, looking for a scapegoat. It's a problem.”

“Tell me about it,” Tom mutters. Grace smiles and reaches out to stroke his cheek. He leans into the rare token of affection. 

“I just don't think it would good for us to leave to go somewhere and relax when people are afraid and suffering. You and me, we're a heavy counterpoint to those who seek to find a scapegoat. If we skip out for a nice time right now, it will cause jealousy amongst some, who'll be quick to talk badly about us, undermining our influence. I feel at this time, like we're a big part of reminding the community that Christ is about love, generosity, and compassion. Flaunting our riches now… I don't know…”

Tom bends his neck and looks at the floor. “You’re right. You’re a wise woman, Grace. I’m just sick of it all, and I miss you.” He does. He wants to salvage some of what they had, while they still have a chance. Some days, he can’t stand to be in the same room as her and he mourns her friendship. They share so much, in spirit and in their past. It’s all dying.

Grace sighs, leans forward and kisses his forehead before resting her own against it. “I miss you too,” she admits.

He bends his head up to give her a kiss on the mouth. It’s a wild chance all things considered, but for once she reciprocates. It’s a soft press of lips, then another, then somehow tongue gets involved. Suddenly he finds himself having pulled his wife down into his lap in a frantic makeout session. It’s hard to say which one of them is more eager. Hands scramble for a hold, shirts gets unbuttoned, breath hitches and gasps are uttered. In a swift move he's turned them over and laid her on her back. He crawls them away from the desk enough for them to lie outstretched, all while kissing her neck and shoulder.

He kisses his way down to her chest, uncovered by the open blouse hanging off her elbows. The bra is white and lacy. He pulls it down enough to uncover the nipples and promptly sucks one into his mouth while tweaking the other one lightly. Up until now he―both of them―have been driven by an urgent need for physical intimacy, to reestablish the bond they once shared. He’s not the only one struggling with loneliness and want for closeness. But now his disease rears its ugly head by sending tendrils of discomfort at the _type_ of intimacy they’re engaging in. He’s sober, nothing to dull out the experience.

Grace has no such qualms. Her eyes are shut, she's making breathy sounds of pleasure and is rhythmically pressing her pelvis against him while digging her fingers into his shoulders. 

In his life, when he’d been put in sexual situations he didn't really want with men, he'd had no problem carry out the act. He’d gotten hard even when he was raped as a teen. If that could just carry over to being with women this could be salvaged. He'd save his marriage. 

_God, please, let me be able to do this!_

He kisses his way down her belly, then hitches her skirt up. His discomfort gets worse and he tries to shove his revulsion away. He loves (loved) Grace. How hard can it be? He’s never done what he’s about to do. His drunken fumbles had been more about getting things over with. 

He pulls her panties off, she helps by lifting her hips. Grace supports herself on her elbows to look at him as he kisses the inside of her thighs, her Mount of Venus, and lastly sucks her clitoris into his mouth. He feels ridiculously lost, but whatever he’s doing, it's something right judging by the way Grace’s head falls back with a “Oh my God!”

He wants so badly to like what he's doing when he licks the wet heat between her labias and plays with the tip of his tongue over her clitoris. He _wants_ to like it. Instead he's fighting not to gag. It’s not like she tastes or smells bad. She doesn’t. She’s always been clean and well kept. He can’t help it, the feeling of revolt inside, that makes his skin numb and his senses dull in subconscious self-defence. Still, he inserts a finger inside of her, as he's seen done on porn, and keeps up his tongue work. She’s so wet it runs down to his palm.

Grace moans, squirms, gasps, whines. He feels the muscles in her vagina starting to contract. It’s just as new as him licking her. Her thighs suddenly slam shut around his ears, she cries out, arching her back, throwing her head back and forth while scraping her nails at the floor for a hold. Her pussy is rhythmically squeezing his finger. 

He's hit with a hot wave of shame, because this has never happened before. He realises that this is the first time he’s given his wife an orgasm during twenty years of marriage. Unless she's cheated on him, the only way she's been able to experience this is by her own hand, and that's just not right. 

She grabs a hold on his hair and pulls him upward, a signal for him to come up. There’s nothing he wants more than to be the man she deserves, to please her. He obeys, draping himself over her, kissing her where he can reach. His shirt hangs open, putting skin against heated skin. They’re both out of breath, she, from arousal and orgasm, he, from limited access to air while eating her out. 

They kiss, passionately, he feigns hunger he wishes he could feel, hoping acting it out would make it true. Her hands travels over his body, nails scraping against his scalp, one hand coming between them to tug at his belt. It comes open and Grace manages to get her hand inside his pants, questing. He kisses her neck and she stills. Her hand has found his dick. Limp.

He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against her shoulder. Swallows audibly. He’s so compunctious and ashamed. 

There’s a moment when none of them moves. The only sound is their breathing slowing down.

He feels wetness coming from where his temple touches her cheek. He knows what it is and it tears him up inside. “Grace, I’m sorry.”

She withdraws her hand from his pants. “Just go.”

He hesitates for a beat, wanting to comfort her. Tell her.. tell her anything that will make it alright. But nothing he can say will change the fact that he does not desire her. Worst thing is the feeling of relief. He’s hurting her by his impotence to do what God has decreed a man to do with his wife, and yet he’s relieved. It’s not right.

He rolls off of her, feeling heavy in both body and mind. Grace lies still, looking at the ceiling, not at him. Silent tears run down her cheeks, her lips pressed together and twitching to withhold sobs. She looks so damned heartbroken, lying like that. Skirt hitched around her waist, blouse open, legs spread, ready to receive what he can’t give. She deserves so much better. Twenty years of marriage and he’s been breaking her heart ever since.

He was never the man she deserved.

He turns and walks towards the exit with head hanging in mournful regret and shame. When he leaves her can hear the first sob break free.

Everything he touches turns to ash nowadays, and down in the confines of his safe in the den, the bullet in the chamber of his gun is screaming his name. 

In Jessi’s room he can hear that Noah and Jessi are still bickering. He fixes his clothes and goes to grab his wallet, phone, and car keys. He needs to get out, or he might listen to the cajoling of the gun. He opens his wallet to see how much money he has, and his eyes fall on a forgotten note with a phone number. Without hesitating, he dials the number. 

He’s almost hoping there’ll be no answer. No such luck. “Cameron Young speaking.”

“Hey… my name is Tom. you might not remember me. You gave me your number just before you left my motel room, after we had a, um... foursome…” he introduces himself. He barely remembers what the guy looks like. Piercings in abundance and skin so dark it made Tom look pale as a paper sheet, no matter how hard the sun had tanned him. That’s about it.

“Of course I remember you! Didn’t think you would call.” Cameron sounds delighted to hear from him.

“Neither did I. Is the offer of a repeat performance still open?” Straight to the point. No fuzz. The lowest of low. Shame burning like acid in every fiber of his body.

“Yeah, yeah. Sure. I’m at home. You can come right over.”

“On my way. What’s the address?”

50 minutes later he knocks on the apartment door. The man opens, a big smile breaking out on his face. Tom finds him attractive, but at this point, it wouldn’t have mattered if he weren’t. He’s here to cover the nauseating touches of his failed attempt at lovemaking with his wife, with new touches―nauseating in their own way, but still so much more wanted, and infinitely more pleasurable. He doesn’t even bother with hello, just reaches out to pull Cameron towards him. He hesitates for a beat, to give the man a chance to back out, or show if he needs to be courted or convinced before proceeding. But Cameron doesn’t. He opens up for Tom like it’s his purpose in life. God bless that pierced tongue.

Cameron (“Call me Cal”) is a lot more loving than Tom wants him to be. What Tom wants… it isn’t good stuff. For the first time in forever he’s longing to be fucked. (He doesn’t ask for it.) The last time he was, he’d triggered badly, been flung straight back into the coach’s office. Now, there’s nothing he wants more than get back to that low point of his youth. He wants someone to slap him, spit in his face, and call him a disgusting faggot. See him for the despicable sinner he really is, and still give him carnal pleasure. He’ll take the respectful and considerate lovemaking and funlovin’ fucking Cal offers, only because he can’t bring himself to look down on anyone else the way he looks down on himself. His heart is always full of forgiveness for others. It’s not their fault. He just can’t grant himself the same kindness. Cal’s a nice guy and a nice lay. Tom has long since overshot the limits for deserving ‘nice’. When they lie smoking in bed together afterwards, Tom’s the one who suggests they’ll go to the club together someday, hating himself for it.

Driving home Tom knows this wasn’t a one time occurrence. He’ll come back. And he’ll go to the club where they met again too―with or without―yet again giving himself up as a free-for-all. He’s angry. It feels like he’s constantly screaming into a void. He’s becoming reckless. Stupid. Desperate.

This is not who he is.

U2 is playing on the radio.

“ _...You've got to get yourself together_  
_You've got stuck in a moment_  
_And now you can't get out of it_...”

He turns it off, can’t bear to listen. 

This is not who he is. Death can’t come soon enough.

* * *


	20. Enough's enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world is boiling, and so is Tom, cracking like dried out earth. Time after time he found himself doing the unthinkable, and not giving a shit about it when he does it, and angsting over it afterwards. And right now, he's angry. Enough's enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **MAJOR WARNING FOR INTERNALIZED HOMOPHOBIA**
> 
> **Disclaimer:** This chapter I would call a hurt/comfort chapter. The problem is, Tom's at a place where some of the hope and comfort offered to him, flies right by him. For those of you who've never been in a deep depression, let me tell you that you get stuck in a negative thinking pattern. Exactly what that pattern looks like varies depending on your personality. But some of the good things bounce right off you, because you're locked into your own head. And Tom's in such state right now. However, these things will still lodge in the back of his mind, to surface later, when he's ready.
> 
> Suppressing emotions, denial, and internalizing are very dangerous things. There is a reason suicide attempt is common amongst LGBT+ people (and, unrelated to the story, also amongst close family to addicts, who face similar problems of self-denial). It's in a great part, because they go against themselves, and deny huge parts of themselves, to fit roles given to them by others. The buildup of all those repressed emotions will need a form of outlet sooner or later. Tom is a pressure boiler at this point. He's not a man with a hot temper, nor prone to violence, so he's leaking steam in other ways. Sometimes in a good way, like here, sometimes not. 
> 
> Also, I've said it before, and I'll say it again - Tom will not fall into addiction. When you feel like Tom, you'll search for any method of coping. He's currently using painkillers and alcohol. This is not the answer, and if you feel like Tom for any reason for a prolonged time, I recommend you to seek help. There's tons of options out there. Support groups, psychiatrists, therapists, online forums, helplines... if one doesn't work the other might. Having said that, Tom does not have the personality or genetic makeup to be prone to addiction. The day he starts being honest, working through his problems, is the day any kind of drug will stop hold a strong allure for him, and he could go the rest of his life without ever feeling the need for another drink or painkiller. This is not true for all of us. However, I will say this, Tom _would_ kill himself, if he didn't abuse the substances he does right now. It's a temporary crutch, but he needs it.
> 
> Right.
> 
> That's all I have to say. :)

## Summer 2014

He had hoped that when Justin left after watching the movie, he’d done so because he’d finally seen the folly of his pursuit of Tom, and give up. It’s a reasonable thought. Just like Angela hadn’t been so willing to be with Lester once he gave in, in The American Beauty, Justin might have felt that Tom was really too old, and he didn’t _really_ want his advances, and just wanted the validation that he could get him, that he is desirable. 

It’s a vain hope.

The lines remains more blurred than they were before.

Fear keeps Justin discreet when others are around, to a degree, but in private he’s bolder. Tom lets him, but by remaining passive when touch gets too intimate in relation to who they are to each other. Like legs touching under the table, or Justin’s hand coming to rest lower on his back rather on a shoulder. But otherwise feigns oblivious to any flirtations.

Noah spends more time in church praying, than he spends with his friends. Jessi spends most of her days in the city, coming home to dinner, almost always with several peers in tow. Grace… Tom’s not sure what Grace is doing. All he knows is that she’s stopped dictating for him to help out, except on special occasions, and just leaves him to do whatever he wants to do.

The virus has exploded worldwide. The World Health Organization is still uncertain _how_ the virus is spreading, or why some areas are hit, but the village next door may remain unaffected. The news shows maps of what areas are affected, and recommends people not to travel. Tom watches, and with relief notes that twin towns remains blissfully unaffected each day. 

The assembly ban hasn’t come to include more areas than sports, but most event organizers have chosen to suspend activities until further notice. One man, Peter Mac Dhé, who had invested heavily in television pay-per-view provision and on demand online streaming, made a press conference, saying that any event hosted by him would donate half of its revenue to help those affected by the virus. Because of this (and because he apparently owned enough of the market to almost have monopoly on it) artists, sports organizers, and others, used his platform, sometimes taking no charge themselves, for charity purposes. It made the baseball and football leagues decide to start playing despite the ban. So they played without a live audience, for online watchers. Charity or not, Mac Dhé was making billions, being celebrated as a hero at the same time. His cleancut controlled appearance gave Tom the chills. He expected the man’s eyes to glow red, and for him to sprout wings, fangs, and horns, anytime he came on TV. When he uttered that thought out loud, it divided his family into two. Noah, too, got the chills from him, while Grace and Jessi thought it was good that corporate giants gave back to society, and that the availability of sports and concerts were good for morale.

On the upside, Mae'r Iachau llaw Duw Pharmacy issued a press release, saying they were close to finishing a vaccine, along with a treatment. Their representative, Dr.Douglas Mabduw, a young, seemingly scatterbrained, and slightly twitchy scientist, declared that he thought it would be ready for the public within a month. Angry voices said that if they had a treatment they ought to share it right now. Dr.Mabduw responded that yes, they did have a treatment that killed the disease, but there were a couple of tweaks to be made, because currently the treatment killed the host as well as the disease, and that would be counter-productive. The company’s name translated to ‘The healing hand of God’, which was taken as mocking by some, and comforting by others.

Organized religion saw an upswing worldwide, and the anti-vaxx movement took a whole lot of blame, to the point where very few dared voice opinions against vaccines. Hate crimes against queers and other minorities flourished, as people scrambled to find someone to blame, but on the other side of the spectrum, charities saw a great upswing, and the news was full of stories of people helping each other out. Many wars came to a standstill, as the people demanded of their leaders that they take care of their own. Some countries closed their borders, but this was the closest the world had been to world peace for a very long time.

The heat wave was relentless, and a local watering ban had been issued, turning the lawns to brown dry patches even in the Rainsborough neighbourhood. Their neighbour Paul bemoaned this loudly, all while his roses kept looking suspiciously healthy. Tom didn’t point that out, as his own pool kept a suspiciously steady water level in it. But the drought hit the poorer people bad, especially those who relied on growing some of their produce themselves. When the water company out of nowhere raised the fee, the congregation instantly had a fundraiser, to pay the difference for those in their community who could not afford it. They also sent in a number of applications for digging new wells in both the poorer areas and on their own yards, pledging funding for the poorer areas. In addition to this, they sued the water company. It’s one of those things Tom likes about the congregation he belongs to. While his own peers took the more expensive fees with little more than a grunt of annoyance, they raged at the risk of the less fortunate being deprived of something as basic as water.

Luckily, the heatwave was centered around Washington State and Oregon, so fresh produce could still be obtained to affordable prices, just not locally grown.

The world is boiling, and so is Tom, cracking like dried out earth. Time after time he found himself doing the unthinkable, and not giving a shit about it when he does it, and angsting over it afterwards.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Tom asks coldly, staring down his parents standing outside his door.

“Thomas, don’t take that tone with me, boy. We’re here out of the goodness of our hearts, to visit our family,” his father says sternly.

“You’ll have to come back another day. Now’s not a good time,” Tom says, relentlessly blocking them from entering.

“ _Thomas_!” his mother says with a shocked indraw of breath, putting a hand over her chest.

“Stop this foolery and let us in before I get angry, Thomas,” his father says with a deep scowl. “You’re making your mother upset.”

“Too bad. I said no.” With that he slams the door in their face and locks it. The patio door is still wide open, nothing’s preventing them from going around the house and coming in that way. Tom stomps back into the kitchen, his heart beating furiously. He has no idea where it came from, but when he opened the door to find his parents standing there, his whole being just screamed ‘ **NO!!!** ’ in every fibre. Now he’s got a rush of adrenaline coursing in his veins, like he’s just had a physical fight, rather than a brief exchange of words.

Back in the hallway he can hear angry knocks on the door.

“You slammed the door on a salesman?” Jessi asks with an amused grin. She and Noah are playing cards by the kitchen table. Grace is sitting there too, going through some economical papers.

Tom grabs the knife and resumes cutting vegetables on the kitchen counter. “No, pumpkin. That was my parents,” he says evenly, negating the storm within.

“ ** _What?_** You slammed the door on Nana and grampa?!” Jessi’s as shocked and outraged as his parents had been.

Tom takes a deep breath and puts down the knife. He turns around to find all three of them staring at him - Grace with a neutral expression, Noah with eyebrows raised in surprise, and Jessi… by the look of her you might as well think he just told her he drowned a bag of kittens. “Yes I did,” he says, tone still even and calm.

“Daddy, _why_?”

Tom’s patience is cracking. “Because I don’t want them in my house. I have to put up with them every Sunday, and if you ask me, it’s one day a week too many,” he answers, an annoyed frown finding its way onto his face.

Jessi is building up to blow a fuse, eyes round and enraged. She turns towards Grace. “ _Mooom!_ ” she demands, tone and posture declaring what answer she wants.

“If your father says they’re not welcome, they’re not,” Grace answers neutrally. It causes a pang of guilt, like the outrage doesn’t. The decisions he makes, affects everybody in the family, and it’s not fair.

“You can’t mean that,” Jessi challenges her mom.

“Your father has good reason for his action,” Grace says, still with a neutral tone, not backing down.

Jessi gets up from the chair, anger in every fiber in her body. “No! I’m not okay with this. You go and apologise, daddy! This is not okay!” Jessi could throw major temper tantrums at times, seems this is one of those times. Tom’s not having it.

“Not unless they apologise first!” Tom spits, like a giant baby.

“I don’t believe this! You don’t do that to people you love! I’m gonna go talk to them,” Jessi all but shouts and stomps towards the patio door.

“You go to them if you want, but if you let those fuckers in, I’m out!” Tom yells right back, stopping Jessi in her tracks and making Noah draw in a breath and slap a hand over his mouth. Grace still looks like they’re discussion the weather. Of her temper, there had been no sign for weeks, just resigned acceptance. Tom would have preferred if she still was throwing plates at him, like he deserved.

Jessi shakes her head in disbelief, staring wide eyed at him, then her lip wobbles and she turns to run out the patio door. 

“Shit,” Tom mutters and turns back towards the counter. He grabs the knife and starts cutting again, hard and angrily. His pulse is racing and his stomach is crawling with worms of guilt and anxiety. He made his daughter cry. She ran out before the tears came, but that wobbly lip said it all. He yelled at his daughter. Cursed the grandparents whom she loves. He’s an awful father. How often has he yelled at her in the past? Rarely. He can’t come up with a single instance. He probably has at some point, but _God_ , this… this is not her fault. Nothing she deserves. 

An awkward silence has descended over the room, only broken by his angry chopping, and then, the sound of a car starting up and leaving. Jessi doesn’t come back. It’s safe to assume she left with his parents. His eyes start stinging, making him even angrier. Possibly, he shouldn’t have been handling a knife with this mindset. He hisses a “ _Shhhit_ ,” when the knife slices into his thumb, drops the knife and puts the bleeding digit into his mouth.

Grace is suddenly there, a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Go sit down, dear. Talk to our son,” she says, voice mild.

He lets himself be led to a chair and sits down. Noah scampers to get the first aid kit, sits down next to him, and holds out his hand, a silent request for him to offer his wounded thumb. Tom complies, ashamed. His son is not supposed to take care of him. Not like this. He brought this on himself. He’s to blame. For everything. And still, if he never sees his parents again, he’ll be a happy man.

Noah washes the wound, more carefully than he needs to. It stings and throbs. “Does this… does this mean I can’t see Nana and gramps anymore?” Noah asks at last, carefully, like he’s afraid Tom will yell again. One more thing to be ashamed about.

“No. No, no, no, Noah. Don’t think that. Never think that,” Tom assures him. “I’d never stop you from seeing or loving anybody. Remember our talk on the swings? I just… I just…” He can’t find the words. Noah looks up and meets his gaze. His blue eyes are sad and solemn. Tom put that sadness there. He’s an awful, _awful_ dad.

“Is this about what they did after you tried to kill yourself?” Noah asks, finally putting a bandaid on the wound.

Grace speaks up from behind before Tom can answer. “You told him about that?” There’s no accusation in her voice, yet Tom feels defensive.

“He’s almost a man grown, honey,” he answers her. Defensive or not, his voice comes out tired.

Grace comes to the table, puts three tumblers in front of them, serves both Tom, Noah, and herself from a bottle of fine cognac. It’s out of character for her, to allow Noah to drink. Or to take a drink herself, for that matter. She sits down opposite the two of them, giving Noah a little smile. “Your grandparents, as loving and kind as they’ve always been to us, they haven’t extended the same benevolence to your dad. It’s made the relationship between them complicated,” she says.

“Are you not mad at me?” Tom asks Grace. “You should be. I was brash and impulsive, making a decision that affects us all, without consulting you first.”

Grace tilts her head and smiles at him, one of those heartwarming, compassionate smiles, from back in their youth. She reaches across the table to grab his hand. “Oh, hon. Don’t you remember? After your suicide attempt, before we got married? I suggested we run off to California to get away from them. I was so mad at them for making you hurt. You said no. Wanting to try harder.”

He remembers. He remembers her comforting him when he cried. He remembers her ranting angrily like he could not. He remembers her being ready to abandon her family and move away, so he could be free of his parents judgement. It’s a painful memory, because it also makes him remember her suggesting going to college and taking a law degree. It makes him remember her dream of becoming a lawyer, helping the poor and the weak. He could have made that happen for her, providing for her education with his pay once he started playing hockey professionally. He already knew he was going to Germany at that point. Then he’d messed everything up for her by impregnating her on their wedding night. And back then, he was still so desperate to gain his parents’ love and acceptance, he’d wanted to stay, thinking he could change their view of him. That his disease could be conquered. He was so young, naive, and selfish. He’d thought the suggestion was for his sake. Looking back at it now, it was as much for herself too. She had big dreams, and he’d gotten in the way for them, ruined her life by accepting her loyalty.

He swallows around the lump in his throat. “I’m so sorry, Grace. I truly am.” He squeezes her hand. In this moment, the love he had for her once, is back full force. Grace was destined to be the heroine in an epic tale of her own, instead she had been reduced to an extra in his tragic story. It’s not right.

Grace just smiles wider, softly. “I know you are, honey.” Grace turns her head to look at Noah, takes a sip of the cognac, eyes warm. “Noah, what we’re trying to say, your dad’s relationship with Charles and Marion is complicated. Should he choose only to talk to them in church, I’ll support that decision. And maybe we still want to invite them for dinner, in which case I’ll accept if your dad chooses not to be present. I’m a 100% certain your dad won’t hold it against you if you still want to be with your grandparents―“

“Absolutely not.” Tom hastens to agree. “They love you and you shouldn’t feel any guilt about loving them back. I’d never make you choose.”

Grace squeezes his hand again, still looking at Noah. “―but you’re old enough to know that everything isn’t black and white. We adults, we have our own set of problems.”

“And I want you to know,” Tom says, drawing Noah’s serious gaze, “that there will come a day, when you’ll slam the door in my face. And when that day comes, I want you to know, that I forgive you for it. It’s your right to do so, and I’ll still love you, but I’ll accept it.”

Noah shakes his head. “No. That’ll never happen. I can’t see myself ever doing that,” he decisively denies. He wouldn’t deny it so vehemently, if he knew his father was a sodomite, Tom’s sure.

Tom smiles. “But if you ever do, I’m okay with it. Just as I’m okay with you hanging out with my parents.”

“I don’t know… I…” Noah reaches for the tumbler of cognac Grace had served him, gives her a glance searching for approval, then takes a gulp that makes him shudder. He puts the glass back down. “I haven’t talked about this, because I didn’t want to speak badly about them, but it’s been bothering me how they’re treating Justin. It doesn’t matter what I say, or how much I assure them that he’s an awesome guy. They keep making snide remarks about him, because of his looks, and I don’t know what to do. Especially since recently, he removed his facial piercings, and dyed his stripe dark to match the rest of his hair. He says he grew tired of them, but I keep thinking that it’s because the bullying finally got to him, you know? And it worries me. Because he’s like a brother to us, even if we’ve only known each other for a short while. I don’t know what to do about it.” Noah looks pleadingly between his parents, asking for guidance after the outpouring of words.

Tom blesses his son’s perceptiveness and compassionate words. He mourned Justin’s change of appearance too, but maybe not for the right reasons. Justin still kept his tongue and nipple piercings, but had removed both his earring and the ones in his lip and brow. He knows why, Justin had made the change the day after they’d cuddled on the couch, but it’s still a tragedy that he feels the need to do it to feel safe.

“It’s hard to tell you what to do. Justin’s not exactly a guy who talks about what’s weighing on him. And your grandparents aren’t going to change their stance on him anymore than they will about their dad,” Grace says. “Sometimes in life you get stuck in the middle, and unless you _want_ to choose, there’s nothing to do about it. But I know you well enough to know you’ve thought this through. What options have you considered?”

“I’ve considered getting pierced myself,” Noah says with a grimace, like he thinks he’ll get a scolding for it. “To show everybody that appearance doesn’t dictate what’s inside.”

“What stopped you? Afraid it’ll hurt?” Tom says, quirking a corner of his lip upward.

“No. That doesn’t matter. But when I thought about it, I figured he’d somehow get blamed for it, and they’d think he had a bad influence on me, rather than see it as the statement it would be. That may mean they’d get even more nasty towards him, instead of the other way around.”

“Sadly, you’re probably right. And if Justin seeks to pacify those to seek to judge him, for the duration of the time he’s got left before going to college, it would be a misplaced kindness to draw attention to him by fighting,” Grace says and takes another sip on her drink.

“You mean, you wouldn’t have been mad if I came home pierced?” Noah inquires curiously.

“Oh, I’d probably be livid,” Grace answers with a little laugh. “Then I’d think it over, hearing your reason, and get mad at myself for being angry at my son for showing civil courage. And I’d probably end up getting one or two myself.”

Both Noah and Tom laughs in startlement, easing the heavy tension that’s been hanging over the room. This is a flash of the old Grace, like Tom remembers her from before. Impulsive and always ready to support, sprinkled with the quick temper that seems to have died lately. “Where’d you get them?” Tom asks with a grin, and takes a sip of his cognac.

“The ones in the brow are pretty _chic_ ,” Grace says. Then she taps with a finger on her nose wing. “And maybe one of those fancy diamond studs here.”

“Justin used to have a nose piercing, but he said they were a hassle when dealing with snot, so he took it out,” Noah informs them.

Grace chuckles. “Alright. So no nose piercing then,” she says ruefully.

“You get a piercing and I’ll get a tattoo,” Tom says, smiling at Grace. He feels a lot better now. Maybe he shouldn’t. He still made Jessi cry, and he’ll have to deal with that the next time he sees her.

“What would you get?” Noah asks, eyebrows raised in curiosity and a fascinated smile on his face. No wonder, mayhap, with his parents discussing these matters as real possibilities.

“Your and Jessi’s names and birth dates. I’d like a cross too, but I don’t think God would want me to have one.”

“Sure he would. He’s the one of us who most easily forgive,” Grace says with easy humour, giving his hand another squeeze.

“Why don’t you get a divorce?” 

Noah’s question takes them like a sucker punch. For a moment they remain quiet, looking at each other at loss for words. The Grace turns her attention to Noah. “Your father and I have problems, it’s true. There are a lot of hurt feelings, from both sides. A lot of hurtful words said, that we may not have meant, and a lot of bad behaviours on both our parts. But it’s because those you love the most, have the power to hurt you the most. It’ll take some time to mend the rifts caused, but it doesn’t mean we want to give up on each other. I still love your father.”

“Not only that, it will be seen as a grievous sin against God, to break the holy vow of matrimony. The members of the congregation will shun your mother. They’ll think her a failure, not being able to please her husband like it’s decreed a wife should. Unfair as it is, they’ll judge her much harder than me, because she’s a woman.” He hates that part. He is the one being a bad spouse, and she would suffer more from it. 

“That’s just bullshit and old people talk,” Noah protests. “Don’t get me wrong. Nobody would be happier than me if you suddenly fell in love all over again, and lived happily ever after. But I don’t see that happening. Jessi doesn’t agree with me, but I’d rather see you split up, if that makes you happy again.”

Unconsciously, Tom strokes Grace’s hand resting in his, with his thumb. “It’s not old people talk, Noah. It says so in the bible,” Tom says seriously. “The scripture and its rules is nothing you can change willy nilly to suit your own wishes.”

“Yeah, I know what it says! But…” Upset, Noah runs a hand through his hair, looking at his lap and at the table, like he’s expecting to find the right words lying around. He spots his glass, reaches out and takes a big gulp of the liquor, grimaces and shudders with his whole body, then puts the glass back. “I know what it says,” he says again, getting control of his upset feelings outwardly. He’s still serious, but appears much calmer. “But I’ve been thinking. The bible isn’t consistent. It’s old and written by many. We’re all God’s children, right? He’s technically our Father, right? He set us up with some fairly basic rules. We shall have no other gods than him. We shall not make idols. We shall not take the name of the LORD in vain. Keep the Sabbath holy. Honor our parents. Don’t murder. Don’t commit adultery. Don’t steal. Don’t bear false witness against your neighbor. Don’t covet. Some of these rules we break on a daily basis and expect the Lord to forgive us―“

“I’m not expecting the Lord to forgive my adultery. I expect going to hell for it,” Tom says sternly.

“You really think that?” Grace asks, sounding so surprised it draws Tom’s gaze to her.

“Of course. You don’t?”

Grace shakes her head. “No. You’ve got a way too good heart for that. If you are sent to hell, none of us stand a chance.”

“I don―“

“ _As I was saying_ ,” Noah cuts in impatiently, enunciating the words to underline that he has a point to make and he doesn’t want to be interrupted.

“Sorry. Go on,” Grace excuses them and motions for Noah to continue.

“God gave us rules, then he sent his son to make sure we knew that his main wish is for us to be compassionate. You raised me and Jessi, gave us rules as guidelines, so we can make our own decisions now that we’re older, and use our judgement whether following a rule is right or wrong, in certain situations. You’ve both, each on your own, told me that your love would remain unchanged, even if we misstepped along the way. I’m thinking, God is ultimately our parent. What if that’s what he wants from us, you know? To grow, and learn. I mean, it’d make sense to abhor divorce back in the olden days. A man leaving his wife and children could mean their death by starvation. And people rarely lived past thirty. But it’s not like that anymore.” Noah takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “When you two fight, it hurts, okay? When you two ignore each other, it hurts. Nowadays you’re acting like indifferent strangers to each other most of the time, and that too hurts. If God truly wants us to be compassionate above all else, when the marriage hurts everyone involved, isn’t a divorce an act of compassion? If you can’t patch it up? And if they shun us for it, we can move. Make a new life for ourselves.”

“What about your friends?” Grace asks. How she can even speak now eludes Tom. He’s on the verge of tears, the lump in his throat so thick he can barely swallow around it. These are not the words of a child. Jessi’s stubborn refusal to accept the thought of her parents splitting up is more in line with what Noah should be saying. How many nights has his son lain awake, thinking about this? Trying to come up with a solution. How much anguish has it caused him to see them fight, if he sees chancing a damning separation like the most viable option? And it’s all Tom’s fault, because he is unable to love his wife in the flesh.

“I can make new ones. Besides, there is skype and internet. We’ll find another church too. I just want the four of us to be happy. Five, counting Justin.”

“We’ll think about it, Noah. I don’t want to give up just yet. Like I said, I love Tom, even if it doesn’t seem like it. But right now…” Grace sighs and pushes a lock of hair behind her ear. “You know what I do during the days. It’s taking up so much energy. I can’t come home and _not_ have what I consider normalcy. Even like it is right now. When all this is over, and the virus has been conquered, your father and I will resolve our problems, one way or another.”

“You think it’ll be conquered?” Noah asks.

“I’m positive it will.” Grace smiles, sad but hopeful. “If there’s one thing I have, it’s faith.”

Tom drains his glass, leans forward to press a kiss on his son’s forehead, then gets up. “If you’ll excuse me, I need a smoke,” he says, then makes a hasty exit through the patio door. He doesn’t get further than around the corner before the tears break free. He drops where he stands, hugs his knees to his chest and rocks himself while he cries himself out.

When Grace comes out he’s sitting at the edge of the patio, staring out over the brown lawn, smoking a cigarette, feeling empty. He doesn’t turn to look at her, but he hears it’s her on the soft footfalls. “Sorry I ran out on you,” he says.

“It’s okay. It would’ve broken Noah’s heart to see you lose it.”

“You heard me cry?” he asks and takes another drag on the cigarette.

“No. But I know you. I’ve seen that look on your face before. I stayed and talked to him. Made sure he didn’t follow. He would’ve worn the sight of you like a blanket of led and guilt, thinking he did wrong to speak his mind. Which he didn’t.”

Tom nods, sifting smoke downward slowly. Noah shouldn’t feel guilty for a mess Tom caused.

“He’s a carbon copy of his father at that age,” Grace says, a smile carrying in her voice.

“ _God_ , I hope not,” Tom says, taking a short drag on the cig. It’s the worst thought imaginable. He hopes Noah will never have to go through what he’s going through because of what he is, who he is. He hopes the lectures about how the gays should be led to the light, and choose the way of God, isn’t because he’s struggling with sinful thoughts of other boys. Tom can think of nothing worse than his disease being passed down through genes. 

Grace chuckles. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. But you were the best person in the world, in my eyes. Strong, righteous, compassionate, and always worrying about others.”

Tom snorts out a puff of smoke. “Yes, well that went down the drain pretty fast, don’t you think?”

Grace sighs. “No I don’t. We’ve made a few mistakes along the way. I’m sure everybody does. You’re still you.”

Tom takes a new drag on the cigarette, then turns his hand to look at the glowing cherry. It’s the root of the problem. He’s still him. He doesn’t answer.

“Noah’s getting older. Sometimes when he speaks, he sounds like a child. Then sometimes, like now, his reasoning is that of a much older man,” Grace says in the silence.

“Mh. I don’t get how he can parrot the old teachings one minute, condemning the gays, and in the next talk about bending the Lord’s rules in the next.”

“It’s not that odd. People have low tolerance for the homosexuals everywhere, while divorce is common practise. He reads news and watches TV. Of course he’d be influenced by what he sees.”

“You think the Lord sent this plague to punish the sinners?” Tom asks, tapping ashes in the jar filled with sand next to him.

“No. I don’t think it has anything to do with God to be honest. The Black Death was spread by fleas on rats. The Croatoan virus is probably spread by something just as simple.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, probably Croatoans,” Grace jokes.

Despite it all, Tom chuckles. There’s no such thing as a Croatoan. A crappy joke to alleviate tension.

Grace comes closer, puts a hand on his shoulder. “Tom,” she says, serious again. “I’m proud of you.”

Taken by surprise, Tom twists to look up at her. “For what?” Her eyes are warm, but tired. Always tired these days.

“For standing up to your parents.”

“I thought you loved my parents?”

“I do. But,” she sits down beside him on the sun warm wooden deck. The temperature isn’t punishing anymore now that the sun is crawling down towards the horizon. “Not as much as I love you. And all those years ago, you asked me to keep my peace, and not to argue with them. I respected that wish. They never given me any grief, on the contrary, they’ve been very sweet towards me. But I’ve been so angry at them, every time I’ve seen them belittle you. So when you told Jessi it was them you slammed the door on, I wanted to run to the door, yank it up, and throw a shoe at them, yelling ‘ _and stay away_ ’. But I couldn’t do that in front of the kids.”

Tom’s eyebrows had climbed steadily higher from surprise. Now he laughs. Maybe he should regret his impulse, but he doesn’t. Hearing Grace cheer him on makes him feel better about it. “Really?”

“Mhm,” Grace answers with a cheeky smirk, lighting a twinkle in her tired eyes. “There’s only so many cheeks you can turn. I think they’ve been bullying my husband long enough.” She gives him a little wink and he chuckles again.

“Thank you, Grace,” he says and gives her a little nudge with his shoulder. She sways with the motion, then nudges back.

“You know, when I found out I was pregnant, I was so afraid. They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I worried you’d become like your parents,” she confesses. “But you never did. You took everything you found bad about how they treated you, and did the exactly opposite. And for that I’m thankful. I couldn’t have wished for a better father for my kids.”

He puts out his cigarette in the sand jar and gives her a smile. He doesn’t know how to answer that. It’s not true. He was a great hockey player once, but a failure as a family man. He’s an awful father. But he doesn’t want to spoil the moment, so he says nothing, just smiles. The sun dips low, setting everything aflame in gold and pink and red. He puts an arm around her, and in silence they watch the sun descend. They don’t move until it’s dark. Then Grace gives him a peck on the cheek, bidding him a good night, and leaves. He lights up another cigarette.

This doesn’t change a whole lot overall. He still sleeps in the den, they still lead mostly separate lives, but the tone remains more civil, and Grace is, above all, tired when she’s at home.

Jessi’s temper flare proves to be just that. A flare. When she gets back the next morning she talks about what she did at his parents like there hadn’t been a big scene at all. Grace informs her that from now on, if she wanted to meet with her grandparents she’d have to visit them at their place, and that the conflict between Tom and them is for them to resolve by themselves. When Jessi wonders why they can’t come there, Grace says that a home should first and foremost be a safe space for its inhabitants, and guests come second, so as long as Tom doesn’t want them in his home they’re not welcome. Jessi grudgingly accepts that, which makes Tom wonder what his parents has said about the conflict. But when _he_ tries to bring it up, Jessi just says she doesn’t want to talk about it. Like the coward he is, he doesn’t push the subject. And Jessi remains as happy to see them as always, pretending she doesn’t note the chill between her father and grandparents.

One thing does change though. And that’s Noah’s treatment of Tom’s parents. He remains respectful and polite, but distant. Tom is fortunate to overhear a conversation at the church parking lot on Sunday. Apparently, Noah not only has the ability to turn him to an emotional wreck by casting judgement on disgusting faggots like Tom, or by suggesting divorce, but by having a spine of steel. They had taken the family car to church, Justin riding along with them. Before the sermon starts, while people are still arriving and are chatting away like they do before and after, Grace remembers she forgot a paper with some figures in the car, and asks Tom to fetch it for her. As Grace is talking with a woman named Mary, Tom goes.

He’s about to open the car door when he spots Noah standing with his grandparents six feet away from the car on the other side. Back straight and chin high. Tom perks his ears only to hear his father’s stern voice. “Young man, I don’t know what foolery Thomas has told you about us, to make you―“

“This is not about dad. Dad says that he’ll love me unconditionally no matter who I choose to associate with, as a parent _should_ ,” Noah says, serious and proud. “This is about how you treat Justin. Justin is a great guy, and a great friend. I’m tired of hearing you nitpicking on him. I was brought up to stand up for people being treated unjustly. It’s the Christian thing to do. So until you treat him with the respect he deserves, and stop being distracted like a pair of magpies by the trinkets he wears, I don’t want to see you outside of church.”

Tom’s heart has never leapt up his throat so fast. He ducks down behind the car and presses a hand to his mouth in pure horrified amazement. His pulse is skyrocketing, and his chest is swelling both by pride and sadness at the same time.

“Noah, be sensible about this,” Tom hears his mother plea, but her voice is receding, and he can hear footsteps walking away.

“We only want what’s best for you, young man. That boy means trouble…” he hears his father say before they’re out of earshot. 

Tom opens the car door and slinks inside just in time to see the three of them entering the church. Noah, walking in front, has a posture and a dignity that makes Tom think of the saying ‘No matter how the wind howls, the mountain cannot bow to it’.

That ever present dormant anger comes bubbling up, cracking his shell all over again. He’s angry at his parents, for being who they are, forcing his son to choose between people he loves. He shouldn’t have to.

Maybe he should feel vindictive towards his parents for reaping what they’ve sown, but he doesn’t. It’s sadness that seeps up through the cracks of anger. His parents won’t change their mind about Justin. Noah just chose his friend before his grandparents, and Tom hurts on his behalf. As determined and unbending as Noah looked, it still must have broken his heart to do it.

Tom’s so, _so_ proud. 

And this is the young man Justin doesn’t dare tell about his attack, for fear of ‘putting ideas in his head’. He wishes Justin could have seen Noah now. And that thought just breaks Tom’s heart. “Oh Lord, my poor babies,” Tom says with broken voice into the empty car. He blinks furiously, trying to stop the tears from coming. Now’s not the time and place. He’s about as emotionally stable as a pregnant woman both concerning his rebellion against his parents, and concerning his children, so if he starts bawling now, he’ll end up curled into a ball again, unable to stop.

He’s already taken one painkiller back home, but now he digs up the pack and takes two more, just to put a lid on the feelings. He grabs a bottle of water lying in the car and swallows them down, then sits and does breathing exercises until he feels he can function amongst people again. It takes a full twenty minutes.

When he comes back into the church the sermon has already started. He tries to be discreet, but of course people turn to look at him. He slinks in beside Grace, less circumspect than he thinks. “What took you so long?” Grace whispers in a chastising tone.

“I’ll tell you later,” Tom whispers back with a dopey smile and hands her the paper she asked for.

Grace does a double take. “Oh my God, are you _high_?” she whispers, far more upset than she should be, he thinks.

“Took a couple of painkillers,” he answers.

“I can’t believe this. Get your act together, Tom, while we’re in church,” she whispers. Agitated. Of course. 

Somebody turns around in the row in front and shushes them. Tom complies, keeping quiet. When the sermons over, he leans in and whispers to Grace what he witnessed, then he goes to tell Noah that he saw what he did in the parking lot, and that he’s proud of him for taking a stance. 

When people enquire as to why he was late he makes sketchy excuses about pain.

John pulls him aside for a chat and he tells John about Noah’s actions. He’s doing a fairly good job hiding that three painkillers may indeed have been a bit more than he should have taken, and that his brain is mostly fuzz.

The real tragedy, is that somewhere in the mindless small talk he has to do with the other members of the congregation with his severely capacitated brain function, he forgets to tell Justin. And Noah’s been brought up not to brag about being righteous, so he doesn’t tell him either. It probably would have helped put Justin at ease, if he’d only known.


	21. Boys Will Be Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom is mentally free falling, and keep doing things that's out of character for him. He's buckling under the strain of keeping up appearance and at the same time being bombarded by constant hate in church. Maybe it's because of that, he finds himself having the time of his life, when he, Justin, and John end up having a couple of days to be alone together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Spotify link to John's playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/coplins/playlist/4qUQbrswslWZnDsuwUGoCa)  
>  John's playlist is just the mood setter. (It's based on the music he listened to in his teens and at college mostly, with some more recent additions.) The music isn't super important. There is, however, a song or two that ties into the story. Those who do are linked to YouTube. Either way, the lyric part that is important in the story is quoted so that you don't have to listen to it if you don't want. Same with a song where the title says it all - it's linked, but the title is enough to get it.

## Summer 2014

**[Boys Will Be Boys](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ie6uxgxfUEM) \- The Hooters ft. Cyndi Lauper**

_Well, don't you know that boys will be boys_

_But baby, I'm a man since the day I found you_

_Sometimes you make me feel_

_Like I got a heart full of toys_

_Oh baby, boys will be boys_

_And don't you know that girls will be girls_

_And I just wanna live anyway that I want to_

_From either side of the fence_

_Vivre la difference_

_So help me, boys will be boys_

“Going a bit slow now, _boy_ ,” John taunts Justin with a smirk and Tom laughs. The two of them are standing on the edge of the pool where Justin is swimming laps. The sun is beating down, burning pleasantly on their naked shoulders. Both John and Tom has changed into bathing shorts, planning on cooling themselves down. Tom is pleasantly numbed by painkillers. Maybe he’s taken one more than he should. If anyone would mention it, he’d take another one. The anger is always bubbling within, eating at the worms of anxiety. He hates the anger, but it feels better to be angry than to to be eaten to an empty shell by the anxiety-worms. The anger and the angst does not cohabit well.

Justin heaves himself up on straight arms by the pool edge at their feet. “Oh yeah? And that’s coming from two old cripples who’ll probably drown without floating devices on,” Justin ripostes with a smug grin.

Tom throws his head back laughing, John laughing along, bending forward.

“Crippled or not, I could swim laps around you, punk,” Tom says challengingly when he’s stopped laughing.

“In your dreams,” Justin scoffs, mischief sparkling in his eyes.

“It’s true. I’d prove it, but I wouldn’t want to humiliate you,” Tom jokes. 

“Pfft! I'd like to see you try,” Justin counters, cockiness abundant. For good reason. Barred from competing or not, he _is_ a competitive swimmer. Tom is _not_.

John is chortling in delight at their banter. His daughter is away on some private horse camp for three weeks, and his wife is on a week long business trip. Their absence has turned John indecently happy and Tom revels in it. John went as far as taking a week's vacation when he heard about the business trip. 

Tom crouches down and leans in close, putting himself nose to nose with Justin. He lowers his eyelids and pulls the side of his upper lip up in a smirk. “You’d like to see me try, _what_?” he asks, voice dark and demanding. 

_*brrt, brrt, brrt*_

In the sharp sunlight it's impossible to miss how Justin’s pupils doubles their size. “I'd like to see you try, _Sir_ ,” Justin corrects himself, looking all cocky, but his voice cracks in one place, spoiling the bluster. His cheeks colours slightly. He’s so pretty and _close_. Tom’s not sure if it's a curse or a blessing that John is here, cockblocking. 

John isn’t seeing the flirty undercurrent in their exchange, but he _is_ finding it hilarious. “That’s right, Tom! Put the puppy in his place,” he says, laughing. 

“Don’t mind if I do,” Tom says, puts a hand on Justin’s head and pushes him down underwater, and as soon as Justin’s below the surface, Tom dives in over him and starts swimming. The sun has warmed the water enough for the shock to be minimal, which works to his advantage. 

Behind him Justin comes up sputtering. “You fucking cheater!” His voice is angry. Tom would have laughed, had he not been so focused on swimming as fast as he can. Banned from competing for school or not, Justin is highly competitive. Tom remembers that from the night they played pool and he got blackout drunk. 

Justin sets off chasing him. Tom reaches the other end of the pool, turns and starts swimming back. Justin reaches the end of the pool and flips to swim back with the speed and grace of a dolphin. He practically shoots past Tom in the water. So naturally, when he passes, Tom grabs his ankle and pulls, to John’s delight. Justin doesn’t kick out when Tom pulls him underwater, (Thank God. The pool isn't where you'd want a kick in the head.) instead he twists around and winds his arms around Tom's stomach as Tom passes overhead, pressing them chest to chest, riding along.

The delicious cling severely hampers Tom's ability to swim. “Could I get some help over here? There’s an octopus in the pool,” he calls out to John, who up until now has been watching and laughing at their antics.

“On my way,” John answers and swiftly dives in. 

When John’s in the water Tom puts his hand on Justin’s hip and determinedly _shifts_ him so he has one of Tom’s legs slotted between his own. The little shit wants to balance on the edge where they can be seen? Well then he can friggin balance there for real. Blurred lines are about to be eradicated. The triple dose of painkillers dulls Tom’s senses enough to prevent awkward boners unless he really gets going, but as far as Tom knows, Justin has no such inhibitors.

He’s hooked up with Cal three times, gone to the club twice more. He may have met Cal under hedonistic circumstances, but Cal talks, he courts, he wants more. He doesn’t want meaningless sex anymore than Tom used to. He wants romance. He is boyfriend material. Tom’s not interested in that. Not now. Not anymore. He just wants everything to end. The club… the club was another dud. Oh, it’s always ended with him in bed with more than one participant for the night, but even actively searching for those who seemed to be the most degrading and demanding, in bed they’d fold for him. Even with his handkerchief tied in the middle belt loop at his back, declaring him versatile, it was like he had a neon sign above him saying ‘TOP - TO BE RESPECTED’ (or possibly ‘daddy’). Whichever it was, he’d failed to find somebody to fuck him, and look down on him as much as he looks down on himself. He’s one of God’s most disgusting, hated creatures―the reason the world needs a cleansing―and nobody can see it but himself. Maybe his parents could. Maybe they’d known from the start, and that’s why he was never good enough for them.

May they burn in hell where they belong.

He should regret that thought, he knows that. He should be praying for forgiveness for being a bad son. But it feels like he’s sullying God by praying to him, so he’s almost stopped praying, except for in church on Sundays.

Maybe he’s a demon, unlovable by anyone seeing him in his true form except for by the most generous of hearts, like Sam.

As if to prove to himself what a despicable person he is, he slides one hand along Justin’s spine, slick in the water, down and in just by the edge of the swimming briefs. Justin lets out bubbles in surprise, but doesn’t let go.

Justin doesn’t get any time to dwell on it though because in the next second Tom is ripped out of his grasp by John. John corrects his grip to settle around Tom’s chest, turns him belly up and starts swimming towards the more shallow parts of the pool, all while shouting “Fear not, Tommy boy! I’m here to the rescue!” 

Thrilled little butterfly bubbles pop like crazy in Tom’s belly at the sensation of John’s strong arm and (mostly) naked body sliding against his own. He relaxes his own body fully, afraid that John will let go if he moves. But when Justin surfaces, practically fuming, directing a dark look at John, Tom can’t help the unrestraint laughter that comes unbidden and makes him inhale water, sputter, and laugh even more.

“I think not, old man! You don’t simply rip a prize from the grasp of a sea monster such as myself!” Justin declares loudly and dives underneath the surface.

Both John and Tom are laughing now. They’ve reached the shallow end of the pool. No part of the pool is truly shallow. The most shallow part is 5’3, here it’s 5’6 deep, the deep end 7’5. But at least it’s possible to reach the bottom with their toes. Tom feels a firm grasp around both his ankles and expects to be pulled under. He is, but only partly. When John feels Tom's legs being pulled he stops swimming and reaches down with his feet to touch the bottom, to better keep a hold of Tom. 

Seemingly, Justin’s plan wasn't to pull Tom under, just to get his body angled down instead of floating. He lets go of the ankles and runs his hands along the outside of Tom's legs, grabs a hold of his hips and puts his mouth against the side of Tom's waist. He opens his mouth wide and presses his tongue against the skin. The water may not be cold as such, but Justin’s mouth feels scalding in comparison. It tickles and feels goddamned good at the same time, making his pulse jump furiously. Tom yelps in surprise, his body giving an involuntary spasm. To cover up for his reaction to Justin’s incredibly bold move, he utters a disbelieving “He bit me!” and starts laughing.

With the hand not hugging Tom to his chest, John shoves at Justin’s shoulders underwater, making him let go and come up for air. Justin―proving that sound carries perfectly fine underwater―says “Of course I bite! I’m a sea monster, and I’m coming to eat you!” and holds up his hands in a menacing mimicry of claws.

John laughs. “Begone, foul being! For I’m His Majesty’s finest Sea Monster Vanquisher, sent to protect him!” he declares and starts splashing water at Justin, who chokes on the water, laughing.

“A fine vanquisher you make, trying to beat a sea monster using _water_ ,” Justin says, retaliating, putting Tom in the crossfire of splashed water, all while grabbing one of Tom’s arms, trying to pull him out of John’s unrelenting grasp.

Tom is taking a lot of involuntary gulps of water, (they all are) laughing so much. He realises he’s happy. He’s undeservingly happy in this moment, and they’re playing like children in the midst of a pandemic, like the world outside doesn’t exist. Like actual children. His crush is hugging him to his chest and the object of his desire is trying to steal him away, repeatedly touching him in wonderful, indecent ways. If he could hit pause on life for a moment, this would be it. The three of them, unrestrained and laughing so hard their cheeks hurt.

And just when he thinks it can’t get any better, it does. They end up where it’s even more shallow, and Tom can stand on the bottom. John winds his legs around Tom’s midriff, hugging his chest and shoulders in a piggyback ride. Tom sees the jealousy in Justin’s eyes just before Justin too clings onto his front. With how he winds his legs around, he encompasses John too. There’s some banter and splashing, but Tom fails to hear. One of John’s hand is pressed over his heart. Hopefully he'll think it's racing because of the exertion of these games, and not because _he’s_ so close. It’s a situation that should be awkward. It’s like having the wife wrapped around his back and the mistress at the front, but Tom can’t stop laughing. The wonders of misusing painkillers. If he’s lucky, his liver will give out. Accidental overdose by a former athlete in pain. Could happen, right? People would think it’s a tragedy, but they’d understand. In the meantime―waiting for accidental death to hopefully occur―he cups Justin’s ass to keep him in place. John won’t see from his angle, especially not with all the water splashing around them. Justin’s eyes go round and snap to his in surprise.

_That’s it, sweetcheeks. You’re chicken racing an express train going full steam ahead to Hell. You’ve been teasing, coaxing, and challenging me for so long now. It’s_ on _. It’s so on! You don’t want this, you’ll have to say stop, because I’m no longer asking. I’m so sick of resisting your wiles._

None of these thoughts translates to his face. He doesn’t give Justin a wink or any kind of sign to signify that it’s somehow not just a hold to help keep Justin steady. It would be risky, and since their cuddling on the couch Justin can’t possibly doubt Tom’s sexuality. So he keeps laughing, paddling with his free hand to keep his balance while John’s trying to dislodge Justin. 

Justin takes a full splash of water in the face and sputters.

“Hah! Take that, sharkbait!” John says triumphantly.

“ _You’re_ the sharkbait,” Justin counters and splashes back. “An’ I see no sharks here!”

_That’s my cue._

Tom gives Justin a show of teeth. “Bitch, I _am_ the shark,” he says with a sassy head snap, twists in their grip so he can get an arm over both their shoulders, then dives under, dragging them both underwater towards the bottom. 

Justin detangles himself and swims towards the surface, while John’s still in his grip, trying to swim away underwater. But he’s not really trying to get out of Tom’s embrace.

Not even in this state―common sense cocooned by a fuzzy layer of painkillers―does Tom thinks the impulse he gets is a good idea. It’s barrelling down a waterfall of idiocracy.

And yet…

_You’re swimming with a great white, Johnny boy. Watch out._

He twists around, tugging at John, until he’s facing John’s back and that beautiful skin art comes into view. Then, he bites it. Not very hard, but it’s a bite all the same. Like he’d said Justin did. John twists around, letting out bubbles in what might have been a yelp. It’s not helping, Tom just bites at his chest instead. He’s getting water in his nose and mouth and couldn’t care less.

John latches an arm around him, and kicks out at the bottom, propelling them both upward. They break the surface, spitting water and blinking water out of their eyes. They’re further down the pool now, and have to tread water not to sink. Tom pushes John while swimming towards the edge, backing him against it. 

John is _laughing_.

_You shouldn’t be. Don’t you get it? I’m an abomination. You should be mad at me and push me away._

John’s back hits the back of the pool. Tom takes a hold of the edge of the pool on both sides of John, boxing him in. John hooks his hand over one of Tom’s shoulders to keep from treading water. This is not how it should go, so Tom speeds ahead, shooting over lines of decency by miles.

Tom chuckles darkly, locking his gaze with John’s, and gives him a smile that is really just a predatory show of teeth. “You think they call me shark because of my smile, Johnny? Think again. I bite,” he says, raising an eyebrow and tensing the muscles around his eyes just _so_. Making it flirty - trying to eradicate the illusion that this is just horseplay. All while closing the distance so they’re _almost_ pressed together. This is a game you don’t play with an unwilling participant. This is not who he is. But the voice that usually tells him to stop, remains quiet. Or maybe drowned out by another voice, screaming ‘ _See me! See me for the horrible man I am! Raise the hue and cry, let them take me away and burn me at a stake like I deserve. Make it end!_ ’.

“I’ll bite back,” John answers with a grin, breathless from laughing and holding his breath underwater, twinkle in his warm brown eyes. This is not how this should go.

A kick to the groin, followed up with ‘ _Are you fucking gay?_ ’, a shove in the chest paired with a ‘ _What the Hell are you doing?_ ’, ducking under an arm and swimming away, or, at least, a polite smile and the word ‘ _Stop._ ’

This highly disrespectful pushing of boundaries may not be him, but the word ‘stop’ or ‘no’ would have him backtracking and wallowing in guilt in a second.

John is a very handsome man, by any standard. Strong, square jaw with a chin dimple. A pronounced Cupid’s bow. Dark hair that would curl around his ears and in his forehead if he didn’t use products to tame it. He’d turned heads in his teens and he still did. Not as much anymore, but that had less to do with declining looks and more to do with a spark gone out. He’s become stricter, more reserved, more burdened since the injury prevented him from pursuing his dreams and forced him to become an office dwelling suburban dad in an unhappy marriage. Lately, that spark had been reignited by their friendship. It allowed him to drop the mask and relax. Tom’s set on ruining that friendship, _right. now._

“I dare you to,” Tom says with a challenging smirk, and bends his head towards John’s shoulder, opening his mouth as he goes, lips still quirked upward, and not taking his eyes off John’s. He goes slowly, so his intent can't be missed. Nothing in his body language or in his gaze is platonic, as far as he’s concerned. You'd have to be blind not to see the seduction in it. Yet John keeps still, lets it happen, amping up tension and electricity in the air until it's a wonder they're not electrocuted, being in water. Not until the very last moment, does John tense up around the eyes, and his smile freezes.

Then, Tom bites. 

There are several ways to bite. If you want it to be as impersonal as possible, you bite just with your teeth, keeping lips and tongue away. 

Tom on the other hand, want it to be personal. 

He closes his lips around the bite, drags his teeth along the water-slicked skin, going so far as allowing his tongue to rest lightly against his lower teeth where it will graze the skin lightly. It’s a bite of a lover, meant to cause pleasure. Not a bite that has a place in a puerile game of pain between friends.

Goosebumps erupts like hellsent wildfire, prickling every hair on John’s skin where Tom can see.

And it’s bad, because John _still_ doesn’t push him away and tell him to cut it out. Despite knowing what he’s doing is wrong in so many ways, the lack of rejection sparks thrills of elated bubbles all through his body, like champagne through his bloodstream.

Tom crushes easily on guys. The crushes fade unless fuelled. Tom’s low key crush on John is fueled by their friendship and his own feeling of isolation, but very much kept in check by the lack of flirting and _mutual_ attraction. Now that he is making a giant pass at John without being rebuffed, it’s doing a real number on his emotions.

Oh, there’s uncertainty in John’s eyes alright. He knows this isn’t right. He _has_ to know.

“You’ve been working out. You started lifting?” Tom asks when he lets go of his bite, just to hammer home that he isn’t playing around. Nothing like commenting a man’s looks to bring a spotlight on the fact that he’s been looked at. It’s true though. John has gained quite some muscle mass this summer.

John gives a slightly high pitched, nervous laughter, averting his gaze. “Yeah. Had to do something. Comparing myself to a bunch of office rats is one thing, but I’ve been hanging out with a swimmer and pro hockey player lately and it made me feel like a lump of dough. Gotta do something, right?” He repeats himself, another sign of nervousness.

“Looking good,” Tom says. He’s too close, invading John’s space, and frankly baffled why John isn’t trying to escape.

“Thanks. I…” John looks back up, eyes searching for something in Tom’s face. Something Tom’s trying very hard to get across. If he can’t pull the trigger on himself, somebody else can, at least metaphorically. Who better to be the whistleblower than John?

The ignored ‘mistress’ chooses this moment to make his displeasure about Tom courting his ‘wife’ known. Justin grabs a firm hold of Tom’s hip underwater, then, on about the same spot on Tom’s waist he licked earlier, bites down. _Hard._

For the second time today, Tom howls and jerks forward, slamming John against the edge, only to be yanked back and pulled under by Justin. Tom involuntary swallows water, inhaling some through his nose too while Justin tows him away. He can hear John’s laughter underwater and kicks out to swim towards the surface. Justin holds on to him but helps getting him there, and lets go just when they break the surface.

Tom sputters, coughs, laughs, inhales more water, coughs again, and laughs. If this goes on he’s going to get cramps in his stomach from laughing today. 

“Guys, you’re both God damned mad!” John says, still with laughter in his voice. He’s gotten himself out of the water and has wrapped a towel around himself, holding it together with a hand at the front. “I’m gonna get us drinks. Be right back.”

“Good idea. I wouldn’t mind getting drunk right now,” Tom answers. Blackout drunk and pass out. Hopefully to never wake. He doesn’t add that. It’d ruin the mood.

“Your wish is my command, Your Majesty,” John jokes with a mocking bow before hastening away. 

Justin follows John with his eyes as he leaves, but Tom looks at Justin. “You sneaky little minx,” Tom says.

Justin looks back at him and smirks. He seems completely unfatigued by the need to tread water, like the merman he is. Tom’s getting tired from all the fooling around, but it’s a good tired. “Sea monster beats shark,” Justin says. The smirk is cocky and the voice is joking, but his eyes show anger.

It’s a 100% justified. Even _if_ his advances towards John had been wanted, it’s downright mean to play them both in front of each other. Maybe that would make Justin see that he’s wrong in putting Tom on a pedestal like he’s been doing at times. Make him stop flirting and let Tom be alone in his depravity.

Tom turns and swims towards the pool edge to get some rest. He takes a hold of the edge with one hand and looks back at the ever present temptation still treading water behind him. “It’s youthful inexperience that makes you think that,” he says.

Justin frowns, his jaw setting in displeased determination. He dives under and swims like a frigging otter towards Tom. Tom thinks he’s a marvel. The grace and speed Justin has in the water, even at play, it’s like he’s born there, and earth is his second element. He breaks the surface perfectly in front of Tom, head tipping back so his hair gets naturally backslicked. The takes a hold of the edge beside Tom, tilts his head and arches an eyebrow, all sass and challenge. “I’m not _that_ inexperienced, Mr.Rainsborough.”

Tom reaches for him, takes a hold of his wrist, and pulls him closer. Justin lets him, changes his hold of the edge, adapting to the change in position. Tom chuckles when he has Justin inside his space. “You’re just one big bundle of trouble, aren’t you, you little vixen?” he asks with a smirk, lets go of Justin’s wrist and instead pulls lightly on the ring in his nipple.

Justin draws in a hasty breath in startlement, eyes widening in surprise for just a moment before confidence bleeds into his eyes and facial features. His tongue flicks out and flashes the tongue stud for a beat, his cheeks are dimpled by a lopsided smirk, eyes narrow with a twinkle. Head tilted and lopsided smirk in place makes him reminisce of Sam, despite looking nothing like him. There’s a world of difference between them though. Justin’s confidence is a facade that will shatter at resistance, Sam, he just takes. Sam, despite being younger when it started, never felt like prey. It felt far more equal than this. Justin needs a father figure he can trust, and this is taking advantage of this need. “Maybe I _like_ trouble, Sir.”

“You don’t know what kind of trouble you’re asking for.” Tom lifts his hand to Justin’s head, touches his brow where the piercing used to be, then follows the jawline down to the lower lip, touching the small hole where the lip piercing used to be. Tom stares at those tempting lips, leaning in as if to kiss, halting a few inches short. He can see Justin’s pulse jump, his lungs expanding faster. Tom strokes Justin’s lower lip like he had the right to it. Without the painkilling drugs his own pulse would have been matching Justin’s right now, but he’s dulled, kept calmer than he should. Oh, he’s excited too, the risk and months of repressed desire can’t be snuffed out completely by drugs. He’s so tired of resisting. “That attack in the parking lot? Just the beginning of the trouble we’re talking about. This isn’t the San Francisco Bay area.” His eyes flicks up to meet Justin’s, to see if he’s paying attention.

This is the first time Tom is fully acknowledging what’s been going on between them, in both word and deed. Maybe that’s why Justin’s looking so surprised. “Sir, I don’t think―“

“No you don’t,” Tom cuts him off. “You’re half my age, best friend of my daughter, my son refers to you as a brother. My wife has all but adopted you as her own. The room you sleep in is no longer considered a guest room by any of us, it’s _your_ room. We all care deeply for your well being. This, this would go off as a cluster bomb in this household. Anyone finds out in these parts, not only can the two of us expect to be hauled off by an angry mob to be beaten to death, aside for the heartbreak, my family may face ostracization and harassment. This has consequences.” He talks calmly, eyes hooded, looking back down on those lips he wants to kiss so badly. The tone of his voice is not accusing, nor is his expression. But Justin too would be committing sins that are greater than just giving into temptations of the flesh, should he allow Tom to do what he’s about to do. Sam would have smirked at him, saying ‘ _I know_ ’.

Insecurity and hesitation is back in Justin’s body language, which is good. In fact, he should be swimming away, if he had more sense. “They don’t need to know,” he says, going for cocky, but the unsurety carrying through.

Tom runs his hand along the tattoos on Justin’s arm, caresses the artwork on the pec, tugs a little on the nipple piercing again and inwardly curses that he only can use one hand without sinking. His hand go around back and presses them flush, bending his head to the side of Justin’s neck and placing light love bites all the way up to the ear. Justin’s breath is getting laboured, like it didn’t from goofing around in the water. He holds on to Tom, and in the tepid water the heat coming from Justin’s crotch where it’s pressed against Tom, feels scalding as Justin’s getting hard faster than Tom’s capable of in the best of conditions. The blessing and curse of youth. Tom feels Justin’s skin prickle under his tongue, just as the love bite with less tongue contact had made John’s skin prickle. It’s intoxicating.

Like Tom wasn’t high enough already.

He sucks Justin’s earlobe into his mouth, thrilling at the gasp the young man makes. “ _Wrong answer,_ ” he says into Justin’s ear, voice low and purring. Justin shivers, eyes closing, neck bending, offering better access. “Don’t walk down this road with me, Justin,” Tom whispers between kisses on Justin’s neck. “I’m doomed for Hell. Don’t follow me there. Don’t let me do this, you sweet little temptation.”

In response Justin tightens his grip on Tom.

It’s unfair to compare Justin to Sam. Nobody will ever compare. Sam would have been egging him on. Holding the keys to Hell up like a prize to be coveted. Sam would have been taking greedily rather than receiving, even when Tom was in the lead. Sam knew what he was doing. But then again, that Justin is more passive, falling apart so easily, suits Tom’s view of himself as an abomination, taking advantage of someone who should be protected. Justin isn’t _passive_ in a way that leaves Tom doubting Justin’s desire for this to happen. If he was, Tom would stop. There’s no doubt that Justin’s into it. He’s just not giving as good as he gets.

Tom wants to teach him to do that. By the Lord, he wants to show him _everything_. Imbue him with the confidence that only comes with exploration and self-discovery. It’s such a shame it comes paired with eternal doom for the boy too.

He kisses his way along Justin’s jawline, alternatingly nipping lightly. Since Justin’s pressing himself flush, making skin sliding slick against skin in the water, Tom lets go of his grip of Justin’s back and pushes his hand back between them, drawn like a magnet by the nipple ring, running his fingers over it, wanting to suck it into his mouth. Not now though. They’re on a clock here unless Justin wants them to get busted. 

He reaches that mouth he’s dreamed about so long now. He kisses Justin somewhat chastely, no tongue involved, Justin making a breathy sound, eyelids fluttering open, hooded and feverish. Tom opens his mouth to deepen the kiss just as he hears the patio door open. Justin’s eyes widen in horror. From one second to the other Tom goes from having a horny teenager in his grasp to getting a big splash in his face as Justin pushes away on the pool wall and shoots himself away, diving under and swimming like the merman he is to the other side of the pool.

Tom rubs water out of his eyes with thumb and forefinger and chuckles. He grabs the pool edge with both hands and heaves himself up part-way so he can cross his arms and rest his head on them. “What took you so long, Johnny? You had to go to Florida for oranges to make juice?”

John comes walking back carrying a tray with three glasses with salt rims, and a jug filled with margarita. In his other hand he has a set of small portable speakers and his phone. He’s relaxed and smiling, nothing leading to suspect he might have seen what went on in the pool while he was gone, nor that he took any offense at Tom’s earlier come on. “Took care of some private business and made us margaritas. Why? You miss me already, Tommy?” John jokes and put downs the tray on a small plastic serving table between two sun loungers.

“You know it. I always miss you when you’re not around,” Tom plays along with a grin.

John chuckles and turns his back to set up the speakers, connecting them to his phone and chooses a playlist. Tom takes the opportunity to turn his head to find Justin, who’s holding on to the pool edge at the furthest edge of the pool. Justin’s face is burning crimson, keeping an eye on John. No wonder, considering the boy has a massive boner he wouldn’t want detected. Justin’s skin tight swimming briefs are doing _nothing_ to hide an erection. Tom sniggers and heaves himself up, out of the water. His own swim trunks are longer and not tight, suitable to wear at any casual summer occasion. For whoever cares to notice, they’re not hiding his beginning of a semi either. He couldn’t care less, still playing his game of chicken with faith.

Grace, Jessi, and Noah are all out of town. They’ve ignored the recommendation not to travel to go to California to look at an apartment for Jessi. Tom would have joined if he’d known John would be taking a vacation this week, but he didn’t. He’d told Grace about Justin’s attack, and explained that the boy feels unsafe, also disclosing the Robinsons reaction to their son’s attack. He hates to break a confidence like that, but it was necessary and Grace would not tell the kids. Grace, bless her heart, had reacted like Justin’s parents _should_ have done, almost cancelling the trip altogether to make sure Justin had people around him to keep him safe at all times. She was also very unwilling to let Justin go home to his parents _at all_ after hearing that. The only reason she still showed them a modicum of courtesy was because she didn’t want them to forbid Justin to come over due to a conflict between her and them. But both she and Tom wanted the best possible setup for Jessi when she began college, so Grace went to look at an apartment for rent near campus, and Tom stayed behind. They told the kids Grace was expecting a delivery he had to stay behind to receive, and that she’d go with them because she needed a break―something they all could see Grace really needed. 

Hence, Tom’s left behind to self-destruct behind their back, and he’s still really, honest to God, _happy_. He’s acting like the worst kind of jerk, and tomorrow’s angst will probably be beyond measurement, depending on how far he’ll have fallen.

Inner Circle’s ‘Sweat (A La La La La Long)’ fills the air and John pours the glasses of margaritas. Tom grabs his towel in a hand, walks over, and throws the towel on one of the sun loungers. John turns around holding a glass. Tom’s expecting him to be somewhat reserved at least due to the sexual harassment Tom put him through before he fled inside. That’s not the case.

John hands him the drink, picks up one for himself, and hooks his elbow around Tom’s neck. Grinning, he holds up his drink for a toast. “Cheers to being grass widowers, Tommy boy. This is what freedom feels like.”

Feeling all bubbly and fluttery hearted, Tom clinks his glass to John’s. “Not quite, but pretty damned close to it,” he agrees and takes a sip on the drink. The salt and citrusy sour washes away the foul taste of the chlorine from the water they’ve been playing in. He side eyes John while he drinks, wondering why he’s not keeping his distance. He _had_ been made uncomfortable by Tom’s advances. Tom had seen it. Really, he should be peddling backwards to get the acceptable distance in place even if it somehow passed him by that it was a real comeon. Yet here he is, arm slung around Tom, seeking closeness. Tom’s never gotten any vibes other than platonic from John. 

_Maybe that’s it? He said he missed the camaraderie from his sporting days. Lord knows, that some of the stuff that was done and said in some teams while out of the public eye―even by the most homophobic members―would be perceived as ‘homosexual behaviour’ by the congregation. He’s loosened up lately. Maybe he’s looking to me to show him where the limits lie?_

If that’s true, it’s ironic, but not necessarily a ludicrous thought.

John takes a sip too looking at Justin. “Hey, Juss! I brought a glass for you too. Come on up and join us,” he calls out.

“I’ll be right up. Just gonna swim a few laps first,” Justin answers.

Tom sniggers.

_Stay in the water until your boner has gone away, you mean? I’ll help you out. If you’re anything like Stefan, nothing’s gonna kill it as fast as jealousy._

With the hand not holding the drink he pulls John’s head to him and smacks a kiss on his temple, ruffles his hair and pushes him off with a grin, mimicking the ‘I-love-you-bro’ type of playful, roughish affection that happened in a team at times, especially after a win. The way John laughs and slaps his shoulder in response makes Tom think he might be right about his assessment.

Tom drops down in the sun lounger he’d thrown his towel on. “So what do you suggest we do with our freedom today?” he asks John, sets his drink down and puts on his sunglasses that lay on the serving table beside his pack of cigarettes and an ashtray. Grace had in silent surrender accepted that he smoked now and replaced sand-buckets and jars with real ashtrays―the kind with spinning lids―wanting her home to look good. She’d even pick up cigarettes for him when she went shopping, something he’d guilt trip about a bit. Not now though. Now he’s enjoying being exactly the depraved, disgusting creature the Reverend preaches about in his sermons every Sunday. A demon in a man’s guise, doing the work of Satan. 

And being happy doing so.

He moves the jug of margarita out of the way to reach his cigarettes, opens the pack, tapping out a cig and his lighter, offering John the pack.

John takes a cigarette. “I don’t know, man. Go out dancing and get laid? Or skip out on ladies all together and stay here, play pool, get plastered, order pizza and watch crappy movies?”

Tom lights his cigarette and holds out the lighter so John can light his on the flame, making him lean in. “I’m up for whatever as long as it involves a lot of alcohol, now the kids are away and I don’t have to keep up the appearance of being sober.” The sun feels good, burning against his skin, heat drying his body quickly.

“That bad, huh?” John says, sitting down in the lounger on the other side of the low table.

Tom grins, bites a thumbnail and shrugs. “Falling so fast I’m burning up in the atmosphere,” he hears himself admit, completely unplanned for. “But right now I feel good as Hell,” he adds, removing the thumb and wiggling his eyebrows at John, covering up the honest confession with another one. 

John chuckles with a note of mourning. “Me too. Only thing missing is a BJ and the day would be complete. And it’s just started.”

Tom takes a drag on his cigarette, leaning back while scrutinizing John. He lets out smoke upward and smirks. “Alright. I’ll do it. Take one for the team. No homo though,” he ‘jokes’.

John bursts out laughing, eyes going round, outraged and delighted at Tom’s shamelessness. “ _Jesus Christ!_ ”

“Hey. The Reverend says the world is ending. Making sure my best friend gets a happy one is the least I can do,” Tom pummels on with a shrug, all cheekiness. John doubles over laughing, sloshing his drink. Tom goes on. “I'm hellbound anyway. I've got a big mouth. I'm sure I can make it good for you.” Not to mention years and years of devoted practice. But he’s not going to let that slip. “Don’t worry, God will know you didn't really want it, and let you in. It’s a win win situation for you,” he finishes with a shit eating grin, watching with thrilled fascination how John laughs himself to tears. It’s not that funny to Tom. But making John laugh sets off another burst of butterflies. The fact that he'd do it in a heartbeat should cause anxiety and sadness, but it doesn't. Not now. Maybe it's the drugs. The Inner Circle song fades into UB40 singing about red wine. Another reggae pop song from back in the days. Nostalgia and feel-good music all rolled into one.

“ _Jeeezus_ ,” John says once he's collected himself somewhat. He downs what's left of his drink and takes a deep drag on his cig, still chuckling. “It’s just like being back in college.”

“What? You let guys blow you in college?” Tom jokes. 

“ _No!_ ” John leans over and smacks him on the shoulder with the back of his hand. It stings, but John is laughing so it’s all good, and Tom laughs along. “No, asshole. I mean the horsing around, the crude jokes. All that. Only thing missing is a left handed cigarette.”

“You smoked weed in college?” Tom says, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

“Sure I did. After I fucked up my arm, that is. Wouldn’t touch anything that could jeopardize my sporting career, but when that dream died, why not?” he says and pours himself a new drink.

“What’s it like?”

“You never tried?”

“No. Only tried drugs once. And that was some kind of designer drug. I don’t even know what it was. Some orange pill. Shit, I’ve never been closer to God than I was then. But I was scared shitless the next time I had to leave a doping sample. I had no idea if it would leave traces or not,” Tom chuckles and shakes his head. Smiles and bites a nail, thinking of that time after Sam’s aborted suicide attempt when he’d asked Tom to join him, taking whatever it was. He thinks there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for his kid. “But I’ve never smoked weed,” he finishes, not to get stuck in pining lest he spiral out of his good mood.

“It’s mellowing. But the effect varies depending on what you smoke. There are different varieties, different strengths. Some will make you a giggling moron, thinking everything is funny. Others make you lost in deep thought. It’ll make you relaxed. Your body feels heavy, but in a good way, most of the time. Not always. Sometimes you’ll get paranoid, or feel so heavy you can’t move. If you’re unlucky you’ll get nauseous, sweaty, and have to throw up, but can barely move because your limbs are too heavy. Happened a couple of times when I got my hands on bad stuff. But mostly it was good times.”

Tom takes a deep inhale of smoke, watching John talk. He’d never had thought this about John when they connected at the barbecue months ago. It’s been months but feels like a lifetime. Before, when he was still playing hockey, he’d only gotten to see the well polished facade John kept up since he came back from college. They’d small talked in church and during get-togethers, nothing more. Then he appeared nice, but strict, polite and respectful, proper. But proper and strict goes down the drain once he gets this relaxed. If Tom’s father is to be believed, John too is marked for Hell, based on the things Tom knows about him now. Tom can’t make himself believe it. Not John. He’s too good. Too beautiful.

Some of these thoughts must have shown on his face, because John gets a bemused smile on his face. “What? What does that smile mean?”

Tom holds his gaze a bit longer, slowly blowing out smoke upward, seeing how it makes John nervous. Another little trick out of the flirting playbook. Hold eye contact too long while keeping a secret smile on your face, make your target think you know something they don’t, get them uncertain, wondering if you’re smiling with them or inwardly laughing at them. It’ll make them flustered or pissed off, and John’s getting flustered. “Nothing. You still smoke?” Tom says, releasing the tension.

_I’m such an asshole._

John shakes his head. “No. Must have been at least ten years ago since last time. It was always the best in good company anyway.”

“The right company gets you high, with or without drugs,” Tom says with a little smile and takes a sip of his drink, still not taking his eyes off John. He wonders how long it will take for John to understand he’s being flirted with. Tom _knows_ he’s self destructing by pushing this. He knows that. He’s just out of fucks to give. He’s wanted to do it for too long, it’s fun, thrilling, and will be his own version of a happy ending before he’s exposed. He’s so, so tired of lying. It’s a way of pushing those who’d want to save him away.

John rubs the back of his neck and chuckles. “I guess you’re right about that,” he says grinning, but his brows are twitching, trying to draw down to a confused frown, as his brain is trying to make sense of the signals he’s getting.

Justin is _not_ confused about the flirting going on. Not now when he’s got confirmed that Tom indeed is into guys. He heaves himself out of the water with dark eyes and jaw set in displeasure.

Tom sits up straight, putting a leg on either side of the lounger, and smiles broadly at him, forestalling anything Justin might say. “The merman finally grew legs. Here, come sit. Join us,” Tom says and pats the sun lounger he’s sitting on. 

Justin’s body language goes from pissed off to uncertain and only slightly annoyed. He comes and sits down facing John, just below Tom’s knees. Tom pinches his cigarette between his lips, grabs the drink John had poured for Justin, hooks an arm around Justin’s neck like John had done with him and hands him the drink. He can’t allow John to think Tom is anything but the aggressor if he ever catches him and Justin doing anything untowards. Justin’s expression smooths out to positive confused surprise. As soon as Justin’s got his drink in hand Tom moves his cigarette to rest on the ashtray and grabs his own drink, holding it up for a toast. John too holds his drink up to toast with Justin.

“We’re celebrating that we’re grass widowers, finally being able to be the full assholes we really are. You want to stick around and play with the big boys, Justin? I’m warning you, it’s not a pretty sight,” Tom says.

“God damned right, it isn’t,” John agrees with a grin. “And we’re trusting you to keep your mouth shut about it, Juss. But damn, we’re going to have some fun! Boys will be boys, and all.”

Justin clinks his glass together with them, wearing a bemused, semi-skeptical smile. “To freedom, I guess?” he says and sips his margarita.

“That’s the spirit!” John declares, downs half his drink, and reaches for the pack of cigarettes. He takes one out and hands it to Justin. 

Tom, leading with bad example, finishes his own drink in two swallows. He reaches out to take his cigarette again, pinching it in his mouth, grabs the lighter and lights Justin’s cig too, all without dislodging his arm from around Justin’s neck. “You got your piercings here, or at home?” he asks, then takes a deep drag on what remains of his cig.

“In my pocket. Upstairs, in my room.”

“Would you do me a favour? Go put them on,” Tom says.

“Sure. But…” Justin holds up the cigarette he’s just started on, indicating he can’t go inside with it.

“It’s not a problem. Take it with you. We’ll air the place out before anyone gets home.”

“Alright,” Justin says and gets up, turning to walk away.

“And bring some more booze with you back. We’re getting hammered,” Tom adds.

Justin stops and turns back to face Tom. “With all due respect, Sir. I don’t think you should be drinking at all, with the medicine you’re taking.”

Tom lifts his sunglasses up, hitching them in his hair, leans forward and pins Justin with a sharp, challenging gaze. He smirks and says “There are lots of things I _shouldn’t_ be doing. And I’m planning to do them all today. Whether you want to stick around and take part in it, it’s up to you.” He raises a meaningful eyebrow, trusting John to think it’s about drugs and drinking, and Justin to see the possibilities of other sins.

Justin’s tongue tip peaks out as he flips his bellbar out to hitch against his top front teeth. Possibly an unconscious gesture that Tom has always found insanely hot. Justin’s dimples heralds the smile that creeps onto his face, along with a sweet blush on his cheeks. “I’ll be right back,” he says and turns to walk towards the patio door.

“His piercings?” John asks curiously as soon as Justin’s out of earshot.

“He took them off after the attack, out of fear. If today is about being free, I want him to wear them. Be himself,” Tom answers. While all that is true, Tom’s selfish motives are much more sinister, in the eyes of the Lord. 

“Good thinking.”

John and Tom keeps talking, drinking, and listening to John’s playlist. Nostalgic summer music―mostly reggae music or close to it. When Justin comes back he’s changed out of his swimming briefs into casual beach shorts, put the piercings in, styled his hair, and even put a line of kohl under his eyes. He’s back to being that boy that lit the insane fire in Tom, hitting so many of his kinks. He’s carrying several bottles with him. Tom gives him an appreciative look. “Looking mighty fine there, Triton,” he says and pats the place in front of him on his lounger, wanting the boy near.

“Perfect timing too,” John chimes in and wiggles the empty margarita jug.

Justin sits down like he sat before, facing John on the lounger parallel to Tom’s. Tom leans back and puts one leg on the lounger behind Justin, pulling the leg up bent at the knee to rest against Justin’s back. He grabs the pack of cigarettes and focuses on lighting a new cig, to make the action seem less conspicuous in John’s eyes. He gets a slow lopsided smirk from Justin when he offers him the pack of cigarettes. Justin’s gaze holds a teasing edge that makes Tom want to drag him back inside and ravage him. He thrills at the thought that Justin would probably let him.

Once their glasses are refilled with tequila from one of the bottles Justin brought from the liquor cabinet, John says “I think my wife’s having an affair.”

“Good for her,” Tom says. “Maybe she’ll finally agree to divorce you, or at least be in a good mood again.”

John gives a startled amused snort. “ _Good for her_?”

“Yes. Let’s face it. We're both cheaters. It’d be highly unfair to deny our wives to seek pleasure elsewhere, when we won’t give it to them. I wish Grace would take a lover.”

“But we’re men. It’s different for us,” John argues.

“Why?” Tom asks, curious. Justin follows the conversation quietly in his typical manner. Listening actively but not speaking until he has enough information to be sure of his opinion. He sips his drink and looks between the two of them. A slight breeze makes Tom catch a wiff of cologne. The boy has spiffed himself up completely. Tom likes to think it’s for his benefit.

“Because we can’t get pregnant, and they might. It would be a huge scandal. What would you do if Grace got pregnant with another man’s child?”

Tom smiles. “If Grace still refused to divorce me, I’d pray her lover wasn’t a black or asian man to begin with. It’d be hard to claim to be the father if he was. But assuming her lover wasn’t, I’d raise and love the child as my own. No big deal.” Tom shrugs. “And I’d pity the father that got robbed of the honour of raising his child.”

“You think you could do that? Love another man’s child like your own?”

“I’m positive. If there’s one thing I believe, it’s that the human heart’s capacity to love is endless. One love doesn’t cancel out another.” He’d said as much to Sam once. He shies away from that thought. Today any thoughts of Sam are to be avoided like the plague. He’s relaxed and happy. Acting like an asshole, by all means. But still. Days like these are rare. “And think about it, John. A child is not the sum of its parents. They are completely new persons all in themselves. Why wouldn’t you love him or her?”

“Huh. Well if you put it that way…” John gets a thoughtful expression. Then he frowns. “But you’re serious about _wanting_ Grace to get a lover?”

Tom chuckles. “Completely serious. Why? Are you interested?” he asks and arches an amused eyebrow. 

John laughs. “No. I mean, I wouldn’t say no to Grace if she wasn’t your wife. She’s as beautiful as she ever was. But no. It wouldn’t be right,” he says, sounding a bit flustered and uncomfortable.

Tom snorts. “From what I know, I’ve always been more interested in you than she ever was. So I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you. But for what it’s worth, should you ever hit it off, you’ve got my blessing.” He’s not sure if he wants John to take the statement for face value, or interpret it as Tom meaning it platonically.

John chuckles in bemusement, eyebrows drawn up in disbelief. “I can’t believe you’re saying that. For God’s sake, Tommy. It’s _Grace_ we’re talking about. It sounds like you’re handing her over to highest bidder.”

Tom frowns and shakes his head. “She’s not a possession, whatever the bible says about marriage. I’m not handing her over. Anybody wants her, they’ll have to persuade her themselves. Lord knows, that woman has a mind of her own. But if they _do_ manage to get her between the sheets, I’m not going to stand in her way of partaking in the good sides of life, sinful as they may be. Only if the man in question is trying to force her, or woo her with ill intent, will I act to prevent it. No person is ever a possession of another person.”

_’Whose am I, Tom. Tell me!’_  
_’You’re **mine** , you devious little devil child.’_

The memory of Sam’s feverish eyes, demanding to be owned, comes unbidden and is almost overwhelming for a heartbeat. It’s physically painful, the longing it brings. He drains his glass and refills it, to cover for how unbalanced he suddenly feels.

“You’re a more generous man than I, Tommy boy,” John says, looking at him with something that looks way too much like admiration for Tom to be comfortable with. He’s not generous. He’s selfish. He doesn’t want the admiration of people he holds in high esteem. Not anymore. That he’s a sodomite cancels out all other good qualities he might have. When he still played hockey, and wasn’t bound here, he sometimes forgot that. Being with people who were out and proud, had at times almost persuaded him to think that maybe God loved him too. But those thoughts had been ground out of him these last couple of months. He’s a stain on creation, and he was foolish to think otherwise.

“Grace is… when we met, we clicked. She was my best friend and I loved her dearly. She’s beautiful, smart, brave, kindhearted and loyal, with a wonderful humour and warmth. She’s everything a man could hope to find in a wife.” Tom smiles broadly (smile for the cameras), bites a nail, gut starting to churn. Justin’s frowning at him listing Grace’s good qualities. Tom considers his options. He hates lying. Every time he tells a lie it eats away at his soul. Every time a lie brings admiration and approval he dies a little bit inside. He’s sick of it. The pain meds and alcohol may play a part in the decision he takes now. “Okay,” he says. “You want the truth about Grace and me? The ugly, naked truth?” He looks between John and Justin. 

Justin still keeps quiet, but John doesn’t. “Shoot. We won’t tell anyone.”

“We’ve been married for twenty years, and Grace has been the perfect wife. She’s all those things I said and more. But I’ve not been a perfect husband. I have never wanted her sexually. Ever. It’s so bad, I can’t get it up unless I’m hammered and thinking of somebody else.”

“No shit?” John’s eyebrows couldn’t climb higher unless he shaved them off and glued them on his forehead.

“It gets worse. Those times I have been able to get it up, I’ve been an abysmal lover, because I’ve wanted to get it over with as fast as possible. I can count the times I’ve managed to get her to climax on one finger. Once. In twenty years. The Reverend and the bible can say whatever they want, but that isn’t right. I’ve experienced true romance and passion in my life, and she hasn’t.”

“So why’d you marry her?” Justin asks with a troubled frown. Tom would have thought he’d get it. But then again, he wasn’t raised here.

“Because she was in love with me. She was my best friend. My parents wanted me to. It seemed like a good decision at the time. I thought maybe that little obstacle could be fixed. I hoped so. After all, people say that a deep friendship is key to a good marriage. And I was not in a good state of mind when I proposed.”

“Man, you’re a way better actor than I’d ever known. I’ve seen you two make out and you always seemed really into it,” John says.

“No. I love kissing and cuddling. With Grace too. It doesn’t mean I’d get turned on from it.” Tom chuckles. “In fact, I love kissing so much, I could probably happily make out with anyone between the age of eighteen and sixty, whose personality I like, regardless of gender. Not that I’m admitting _that_ at the next church get-together.” It’s a bold statement in front of John. A bit of an exaggeration, but mostly true. He has no idea what John’s reaction will be.

John laughs disbelievingly. “Wow. Yeah. No I wouldn’t go telling people that willy nilly. It may be misconstrued.”

It wouldn’t be.

The churning in his gut is gone. He gets bolder in his admissions. This one’s for Justin’s benefit. A warning, if you will. In case it makes him want to back out. He lights a cig, takes a deep drag on it and blows smoke out upward, smirking and adapting a smug demeanor. The cockiness is to cover up the guilt he feels about what he’s about to confess. “To go back to what Grace has had to put up with in our nearly non-existent sex life…”

Both John and Justin is leaning a bit towards him, perking their ears now. His body language tells them something juicy is coming up, and these things he’s been saying… you just don’t admit any of it openly like he’s doing. For him, every new truth he reveals is like getting a bit more oxygen with every breath drawn.

“I’m not proud of it, but I know that any time we’ve had sex I’ve hurt her. To put it lightly, I’m _hung_.”

John bursts out laughing and Justin slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes shining with mirth.

Tom grins. “You think I’m joking? I’m not. This is a real problem. I turn into a fucking tripod when I’m aroused,” Tom says, chuckling. He’s presenting it as a joke, but keeps an eye on Justin for any sign of withdrawal.

“Oh come on. Now you’re just boasting,” John protests laughingly. He’s appreciating the lockerroom level of humour at least.

Tom scoffs and takes a drag on his cigarette, blows the smoke out sharply downward. “It’s not boasting when stating a simple fact,” he says, quirking his lips up in a smirk. He lays his leg flat behind Justin’s back and grips his dick outside his shorts, holding it so the outline is showing. His size is respectable even when he’s limp. “See this? I’m not sitting here with a boner. This is the size of my dick during naptime. It grows considerably both lengthwise and in girth. Fear is not an uncommon reaction I get when I whip it out.”

John’s practically howling with laughter. Justin’s eyes are glued to Tom’s crotch, shoulders jumping with silent laughter. And that unabashed staring (whether Tom called attention to his dick or not) is one of those things one has to be careful about not to out oneself, so Tom goes on. “Or, my lovers get so fascinated that I need to go,” he lets go of his dick, snaps his fingers in front of his crotch, and points towards his face, “‘Eyes up here, sweetheart.” Justin’s eyes snap up, his cheeks colouring prettily. Tom chuckles. He’s trying to get Justin to change his mind about letting Tom corrupt him, but by the excited glow in Justin’s eyes it’s having the opposite effect. Tom looks at John. “I’m telling you, John. Being well endowed isn’t all what it’s cranked up to be. You always have to be careful and keep yourself in control or you’ll wreck your lovers. You got to make sure the lover is well prepared and loosened up to take you. You can’t just ram it in, or there will be pain. Forget a five minute quickie.”

John gets a hold of himself. Still snickering, he says, “Come on. It’s not that bad. A wet pussy will stretch just fine, adjusting to what it has to take.”

Tom sucks in air through his teeth, making a face as you do when you see someone take a nasty fall. “Mmh. About that…” He pins John with his gaze, lowers his eyelids and raises an eyebrow pointedly, adapting the most arrogant smirk he can muster and says “I prefer it anal.”

John loses it. Even Justin’s laughing out loud now. Tom flips his sunshades back down and takes a hit on his cig, smoke escaping in puffs of silent laughter as he watches his companions mirth. This is another moment in time he wishes he could pause. Spin Doctors’ ‘Two Princes’ playing in the background, two beautiful men he feels very strongly about laughing openly at something he said, not a single lie told, a great alcohol buzz and sun warming his skin pleasantly. He didn’t think life would ever get this good again.

“Bro. Still waters run deep! I don’t know how I’m going to keep from laughing the next time I see you shake hand with the Reverend after a sermon. Nobody would believe you’re such a kinky bastard,” John says, still chuckling and drying tears from his eyes. His eyes are full of amused affection Tom doesn’t deserve but nonetheless bask in.

“Yeah. My tastes does go a bit outside of the boundaries of what is acceptable in these parts,” Tom admits with a sheepish grin.

They veer off into talking about memories of funny incidents involving girls (or in Tom’s case, guys. But he keeps pronouns out of the conversation, letting John and Justin make their own conclusions.) Justin’s just as actively talking now too, telling them stuff that has them all in stitches. The humour level is crude, self-deprecating, and fairly sexist. It doesn’t matter. This is what joy feels like.

And for some reason God has decided to smile upon them, making a great day even better.

Justin’s phone rings. He fishes it out of his pocket and looks at the caller ID with a little frown before answering. “Justin Robinson speaking?”

John and Tom quiets down in respect. Justin gets to his feet, expression turning serious and voice sobering up, getting the full attention of his companions. “Yes, Sir. It’s me…. Uh-huh…. That’s right.” Justin begins to pace, eyes getting wider and breath speeding up. “Yes, Sir…. That’s right. … No. I’ve kept up daily practise.”

John sips his drink, a secret little smile spreading on his lips. By now Tom’s dying to know what has Justin so agitated.

“....Absolutely. I’d like that very much, Sir. ….Thank you. ...I don’t have a pen and paper available right now. Do you think you can send it to me by email? ….Thank you, Sir. No, no, I know. I’m just excited to get the chance. Sir, you don’t know what it means to me. I― …. Uh-huh. … Yes, Sir. I’ll be there. Thanks again. Goodbye.” Justin hangs up, looking gobsmacked. For a moment he just stares at his phone, then he whirls at John and points an accusatory finger. “ _You_ ,” he says, eyes wide and disbelieving.

John laughs in delight and claps his hands together. “What did they say?”

“What did you write?” Justin counters.

“Uhh.. Anyone cares to fill me in? Who was that?” Tom asks.

Justin drags his hands through his hair. He’s brimming with barely contained nervous energy. “That was the head of the aquatics department of the University of San Francisco. They wanted me to come and tryout for a possible scholarship and a spot on the swim team. Apparently, when _Mr.Powell_ over here,” he gestures with his head at John who’s grinning like a Cheshire cat, “offered to mail my college applications for me, he included a letter of recommendations of his own without telling me. They said that my own application essay and my grades from the courses I completed this summer, put me on the reserves list. But John’s letter along with the praise I got when they checked with my coach from my last school, made them think I could be good enough to be on their swim team. If I am, I’m guaranteed a spot at their university, and I may be eligible to some financial aid. They want me to come there to try out next Thursday.”

“Congratulations!” Tom’s heart feels like it could burst out of happiness for Justin’s sake. In his mind, there’s no doubt Justin will make the team. His heart also swells for John, remembering his attitude against Justin before he got to know the boy, as blinded by his outward appearance as the rest of them. To take on the boy to help him with math―the only subject Justin struggled with, to Tom’s knowledge―had been beyond his duty. That he’d gone the extra mile to ensure Justin’s education and escape route, just showed what a big man he is. 

Justin gives a little disbelieving giggle. “I’m not in yet.”

“Sure you are,” John says and gets to his feet with a big smile in place. “I know jack shit about swimming, but remember that time me and Tommy timed you? I included those numbers and the measurements of Tom’s pool, so they could draw their own conclusions. And I talked to all the previous coaches you’d had. Your coach from St.Martin’s had a fit when he heard you’d been banned from swimming due to your tattoos. I quote,” John lowers his voice, mimicking a southern accent with a base, “‘That boy reaped gold medals like they were his for the taking. He’s the only one I’ve coached I believe will be representing the star spangled, making our country proud.’”

“You wrote that?” Justin says, looking a bit dazed.

John chuckles. “No. But I did include a list of those that had coached you before you ended up here. What I _did_ write, was that you’re intelligent, disciplined, hardworking, and highly competitive. That any confidence given you is returned tenfold. I wrote that you had gotten in trouble at our school because you are critical of sources, and don’t shy away from debating factual faults, even if they’re delivered by persons of authority such as teachers and politicians. I told them that you’re very politically and socially aware. And that if it was a job you were after, I’d hire you in a heartbeat, bypassing people with much higher educations than you, confident you’d deliver whatever I required. But I don’t want that to stand in the way of any dreams you may have that is bigger than a nine to five job at an office.”

Justin’s a boy who’s been meeting criticism and discouragement from adults all his life. He’s been building walls to keep emotions and hurt hidden. Now he’s standing stock still, nostrils flaring, and eyes radiating all those hidden emotions, unable to verbalise.

John grins, takes a step forward and holds out his arms. “Come here, Juss.” Justin steps into the hug. It’s a real one, filled with true affection. None of that distancing backslapping. “I’ve got faith in you, Juss,” John says into the embrace. It’s what Justin needs. What Tom himself taints by giving in to his desire for the boy. A grown man that sees him, stands up for, and supports him, for no other reason but liking and having faith in him.

Tom’s eyes sting and he gets a lump in his throat. He’s grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. He’s always had a bleeding heart. Tears come as easily to him as they’re said to do for women. (Which, using Grace for measurement, is a bad comparison, because she doesn’t cry half as easily as him.) “Guys…” he says, feeling one stupid tear roll down his cheek. “You’re ruining my makeup,” he jokes and rubs at his eyes with a finger.

“You’re a sap, Tommy,” John says with a little laugh when he withdraws from the hug. 

But really, how can he _not_ be, when the smile on the young man’s lips threaten to split his face, and his eyes are as glossy as Tom’s own?

* * *

It’s cause for celebration. Like they needed another one. Hah! Tom keeps up his bad mannered flirting with both his companions. John picks up on Tom’s flirting, that much is clear. But it’s like his brain refuses to accept the possibility of it meaning what it does, and instead leaves him bewildered and slightly nervous anytime Tom says and does something that’s undoubtedly flirty. When he at one point makes a particularly handsy move on John, Justin pinches him painfully from behind, hard enough to leave a bruise, and gives him a dark look.

Tom takes it in stride. He deserves it and much more. Instead he retaliates in his own way. For late lunch they order sushi for home delivery. Justin goes inside to go to the bathroom and Tom gets up and follows him while John’s outside, making the call for the order.

Tom sneaks up on Justin as he’s about to open the bathroom door, putting a hand on the door from behind. Justin gives a frightened little jump and whirls around to face Tom. “Sharks have been around longer than sea monsters, and have survived four mass extinctions. Sea monsters didn’t do so well, bar Nessie,” Tom says, leering. “I was around before insects, before trees, before dinosaurs and mammals. You should not let me near you this way.” He puts both of his hands on either side of Justin and crowds in his space. 

Justin’s expression goes from startled to mirroring the playfulness in Tom’s eyes. Smiling, he bites his lip. Then he straightens to his full height and steps close enough that their noses almost touch, looking back and forth between Tom’s eyes and mouth. His upper lip draws up in a challenging smirk. “Oh, yeah? And why’s that?” he says and bites his lip again.

“Sweetheart, I’ll be eating you alive,” Tom answers with a deep chuckle. Before Justin has a chance to answer, he closes the distance between their lips, winds one arm around his back and opens the toilet door. With three whirling steps he has waltzed them inside, closed the door and pressed Justin against a wall, all without breaking the kiss. His pulse is racing and his stomach is swooping in delighted thrill. Justin tastes of alcohol, smoke, and that taste that’s purely him. The feeling of the bellbar against his tongue is driving him mad. It’s amazing what a little piece of metal can do. He wonders if he’ll ever be lucky enough to feel that round metal ball tickle his frenulum.

His hands travel over Justin’s upper body, all toned muscles and baby soft skin. He drags lightly with nails, content to feel the goosebumps under the pads of his fingers afterwards. Justin squeezes his ass with one hand and grips his hair with the other, pulling him closer. _God_ , he’s so responsive. Justin’s already at full mast, despite the both of them being drunk. He makes small whimpering sounds Tom could get high off. It’s perfect. 

Tom kisses his way down Justin’s throat, and Justin’s head fall back against the wall, eyes closed. Tom keeps kissing his way down, a hand going around to stroke Justin’s back, the other one pinching his nipple lightly while his mouth finds the pierced nipple. He goes down on a knee, sucks it into his mouth and toys with the ring with his tongue. Heat is pooling low in his own groin. He’s starting fill, dulled by drugs and alcohol or not, he’s madly turned on.

He shifts to kiss the other nipple too, not to get lost in his own kinks and desires. He wants to pick Justin apart, not the other way around. But Justin pushes his head right back. Tom makes a rumbling sound of appreciation and looks up. “You like that?” he asks and tugs lightly on the nipple ring with his teeth.

Justin looks down on him with feverish eyes and nods. He’s not a talker. That doesn’t matter as long as he gets his likes and dislikes through. “Shit. You’re too good to be true,” Tom states and goes back to suckling the pierced nipple. Justin’s only response is another of those whimpering noises and squeezing his eyes shut, his hip moving to seek friction.

There’s too little time. Tom gives Justin’s side a couple of soft love bites (that won’t leave marks) on the side of his ribs, then gets to his feet, breathing as roughly as Justin. “Time’s up, gorgeous,” he says with a teasing smirk.

“ _Bitch_ ,” Justin exclaims with a frustrated scowl. 

Tom chuckles and kisses the side of Justin’s neck. “Pleased to meet you. Hope you guessed my name,” he says, voice full of warm humour. Then he opens the door and slinks out with one last wink to Justin. Honestly, it takes all the self control he can muster. But it's a nice little revenge for the pinch (and all the times Justin’s left Tom sexually frustrated). Justin won’t be able to pee until his boner has died. With how easily Justin gets an erection, Tom wonders how many times he can bring the boy to this state and back today. It’s going to be fun to find out.

As the day progresses and they get increasingly drunk, Tom starts having trouble keeping his feelings for his two companions apart. He feels just as infatuated and lusting for the both of them. The effect of the painkillers has long since worn off but he’s still flying high. They’re joking, goofing, and playing, not letting themselves be censored very much by decency. Acting like dolts, by all means, but it’s worth it from the ache in cheeks and bellies from laughing. 

At one time when they’re all on their feet, [Mariah Carey’s ‘Fantasy’](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qq09UkPRdFY) comes on and Tom dances up to Justin, smiling and miming along to the lyrics;  
“ _Oh, when you walk by every night_  
_Talking sweet and looking fine_  
_I get kinda hectic inside”._  
Only to turn and point at John, miming along to the next part.  
“ _Mmm, baby I'm so into you_  
_Darling, if you only knew_  
_All the things that flow through my mind_.”  
The both of them just laugh. Tom’s so in love with them at that point. Getting to say it in a roundabout way is so liberating. Tom couldn’t be happier if he tried. 

Only one time does Justin challenge Tom's flirting with John verbally, and it's another song that triggers it.

[‘I wanna sex you up’](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kO6BtpIzIiM) by Color Me Badd comes on and Tom whoops in delight. “The forbidden music!” he exclaims. “Johnny, do you remember the school dance when someone put this on?”

John laughs. “Do _I_ remember it? It was me who put it on, Bro!” They’re back to sitting on the loungers. Tom and Justin side by side opposite John. 

“ _No way._ ” Tom almost chokes on his drink, laughing. “I thought it was that kid Conrad. He always got up to no good.”

“Nope. It was me, wanting to impress a girl,” John says, looking very smug about it. ”You on the other hand surprised me, being on the student council and all. I'd never imagined you'd just roll with it, and start dancing, rolling your hips like a fucking stripper.”

Tom grins sheepishly. “My parents grounded me for a fortnight for that dance.”

“Um… the forbidden music?” Justin cuts in with a raised eyebrow. He’s been looking back and forth between them with an expression that said ‘ _Ooo_ -kay’ with a heavy dose of skepticism. 

“It was a school dance when we were fifteen. At that time abstinence was taught as the only option. If they could convince us babies came delivered by storks, they would. The music at school dances was heavily moderated,” Tom explains. “A song like this, purely about sex, was deemed the music of Satan.”

“The school looked different back then. They've since torn it down and built your school. But then dances were held in the gym hall. It had one of those commentator booths above the basketball court and the music was played inside from there, right?” John takes over. “So me and this girl, Joan, sneaked inside while the approved DJ went to the bathroom, locked the door, put this song on, and watched chaos unfold.”

Both Tom and John are snickering. “Do you remember Mrs.Aaronson’s face? Or, or, Tanya!” Tom points excitedly at John. “She honest to God, _fainted_. And Jordan and Martin were doing these obscene gestures. The headmaster's head was friggin purple from rage.”

John laughs. “She fainted? No. I don’t remember any of that,” he says, face splitting grin in place. 

“Uh- _huh_ ,” Justin says dryly. “With other words, you were crushing on each other already in high school.”

“What? No! The fuck are you talking about, Juss?” John says with a horrified scowl. 

“I'm saying, you had a girl you were into with you, a full view of the whole dance floor, probably hundreds of students, and what you remember is Mr.Rainsborough dancing like a stripper,” Justin says with a smirk and raises a teasing eyebrow. “Sounds like a crush to me.”

“I like _girls_ , okay? I'm not a fucking fag, but there’s a good reason as to why Tommy letting loose is memorable, okay?” John says defensively. 

Tom snorts in amusement, lighting a cig. “I on the other hand, had a crush on you.” John’s gaze snap to him in total bewilderment. Tom smiles disarmingly and points at him. “You were so cool. I wanted to _be_ you.” John relaxes a notch but still looks alarmed. Tom looks at Justin, smirking lopsidedly, wanting to smack the boy for the blunt accusation that no doubt will have John keeping his distance from now on. Unless... “Johnny was our time’s version of you. Leather jacket and hair like Swayze, a cigarette behind his ear and attracting girls like moths to a flame. He had this rebellious screw-you-I-do-what-I-want-to attitude. Only, somehow, what he wanted to do was get good grades and be a pro athlete. So he mouthed off towards any adults trying to control him, but aced all the tests and trained with the same discipline as I. I envied him and could have given my right arm to get his attention so that some of his coolness would rub off on me.”

John had relaxed more and more while Tom talked. Now he chuckles. “I wasn’t _that_ cool.”

“Eye of the beholder,” Tom counters with a wink.

John turns his attention to Justin. “The word crush can be misconceived, Juss. But the way Tom puts it… Yeah, in a way. But not. You know what I mean?”

Justin, being a little shit, gives him a flat look, like John’s not making sense. If they weren’t all drunk, John might not have missed the tiny twitches in Justin’s face that showed he was fighting a laugh. But John misses it and makes a frustrated face. 

John runs a hand over his face then grabs his drink and downs it. He gestures at Justin with the empty glass. “You got to understand who Tom was, to get why I got stuck on him dancing.” He gets to his feet (a bit unstable), puts down his glass, and holds up his hands, palm outward. “There were three families who totally dominated any church activities, and the Rainsboroughs were one of these families. Still are, right? I mean, you know Grace swooped in to take the reins more or less right after they got married, and Tom’s parents are just as prominent influences now as they were then. Anyway, Tom was a jock and an A student. On top of that he was on the student’s counsel and led the school’s after hours prayer group. He knew the bible inside out. As far as I know he either devoted his free time to hockey practise, or church. Even in summer he’d be practising with rollerblades on. Right?” He looks to Tom for confirmation, and Tom nods in amusement, blowing out cigarette smoke upward to the side.

He’d driven the neighbours mad by drawing circles on the house wall, practising slapshots until late nights - the smacking sound could be heard by all the surrounding houses. His father would come out of the house now and then and point out every miss he saw, but never reprimand him for making noise. He’d skate, on or off ice, until his whole body was burning with fatigue. He’d run, or work out. Anything to get better, to get ahead. He loved it. Putting his body through physical strain was freedom.

Like John said, the rest of his time was mostly spent doing activities that he hoped would make his parents proud of him. Them, and God. His faith in God had remained fairly constant through his life, it was whether God loved him back he had doubted.

John looks back at Justin. “Sounds like the makings for a grade A, stuck up douchebag, right?”

Justin sniggers. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Pfft. You guess. If Tom had been a character in a high school movie, he’d been an asshole for sure.” John says. “But he wasn’t. He was genuinely nice and respectful. Damned fucking likeable. Defended the girls honour, and wouldn’t stand for bullying. He was real school royalty. _Everybody_ knew who he was.” 

Justin looks at Tom who once again nods in amusement. “Yup. That was me, alright. Trying to be perfect.”

“And you were,” John chuckles. John continues, directing himself to Justin. “But he was very proper. So I would have expected him to try to stop the song from playing. Insead he went like this…” John closes his eyes, smiling bites his lower lip, bends his neck and knees, slowly rolls his hips to the rhythm of the music, changing direction of his hiproll in an 8 formation. It’s sexy. It’s sensual. Tom would definitely like a private show.

Tom laughs. “I danced like that? Shit, I must have looked raunchy as hell. No wonder my parents grounded me for it. You know mom was there, overseeing the dance?”

John (sadly) stops dancing to grin at him. “I know. Best thing ever.”

Tom gets up, pinches the cig in his mouth, faces Justin, and says “Many of the guys just did this.” He mimicks exaggerated humping back and forth, then stops and takes the cig out of his mouth. “Now that’s just tasteless,” he says and claps a hand on John’s shoulder with an amused grin. “Or what do you say?”

John―having overcome his fag-scare―sniggers. “Sure, ain't getting any pussy that way,” he agrees.

“Wasn’t trying to. I was just feeling the music. Mom said the devil had taken a hold of me. Shit, if she’d known all the stuff I got up to once I moved out, she’d burn me at a stake,” Tom jokes with a shiteating grin and hooks an arm around John’s neck.

John laughs, putting his arm around Tom’s back, hooking his hand over his shoulder. They’re drunk best buds, so why not, right? Hah! “Tell me about it!” John chortles. But Tom’s looking at Justin with a threatening smirk and narrowed eyes, having a silent conversation. _I see what you did there, kid. It isn’t working, so back off._ He isn’t tolerating any shade thrown at John, when _Tom’s_ the corrupted one.

It’s hard to tell if the message gets through, but Justin grabs the phone and restarts the song. “You’re both amateurs,” he says with a cocky smirk. “Sit yourself down, and watch how a real pro does it.” He gets up and backs away from the loungers to get some space. “This is how you get yourself laid by dancing.”

Tom sits down when Justin starts to move, and good Lord can the boy move. He has that bedroom eyes that just draw you in with promise, enhanced by the khol. If Tom thought Justin was sex on legs before, this is…

John sits down too, but laughing. “You did _not_ move like that at fifteen, boy,” he says mirthfully.

“I sure did,” Justin counters with amusement. “Didn’t lose my virginity at fourteen because of my ability to swim.”

“Jailbait. Bet even the teachers dropped their panties at school dances,” Tom says, showing his teeth in one of his smile-for-the-camera grins, unable to take his eyes of that seductively moving body. 

“I’m legal _now_ , Sir,” Justin teases, raises his eyebrow meaningfully at Tom and flicks his tongue out to catch his bellbar between cockily smirking lips.

John laughs nervously. “Jesus Christ! The level of indecency you two get up to when you let loose. Has Paul got off work yet? Can we be seen from here? If anyone’s going to misread what’s going on here, it’s him.” He looks around trying to assess if they can be seen by outsiders. It’s a testament of him picking up on all the not so subtle flirting going on. He just refuses to accept that it means what it means, or he wouldn’t still be here.

“Don’t worry. As long as we’re poolside we can only be seen by anyone on my property. And I did mention to Paul the other day that I’ve bought a gun. I said, ‘Those pesky trespassers, you know?’”

It’s enough to kill John’s paranoia and make him laugh. He’s worried about them being perceived as gay, apparently not that bothered by the homoerotic undertones in his present company. His denial is giving Tom his best day since retirement. 

The dance earns Justin another make out session the next time Tom manages to get him alone for a couple of minutes. Drunker and drunker as they may be getting, Tom still manages to leave Justin with another frustrating erection to will away. Life is good.

* * *

Around dinnertime they stumble inside and put some more clothes on.

“Okay, guys. What do you want to do? Go out and try to get laid, or…?” John says, hitching an arm around their shoulders from behind and sticking his head between them. 

“No woman is going to want our drunk asses in this state,” Tom answers.

“True. True. So stay in for some netflix and chill then?” John―bless his heart―says.

Justin chokes on spittle and Tom bursts out laughing. “I’m drunk enough to be open to anything, but it’s going to be real hard to pass off the no homo card after _that_ ,” Tom chortles. 

“What?” John looks like a living questionmark, looking between Justin and Tom, who’re both giggling like dolts.

“Um… I don’t think that expression means what you think it means,” Justin answers.

“Justin, tell the poor man what he suggested we’d do,” Tom says, ducking under John’s arm so he can face him full on and see the reaction.

Justin whispers in John’s ear while making an O with thumb and forefinger with one hand, sticking his other forefinger in and out of it to signal fucking. 

The sheer look of mortified horror on John’s face when he realises it's meaning has them in stitches. Even more so when he starts listing times he's used the expression wrongly, more mortified by each instant he’s said it. At one time he’d even suggested to his daughter and her boyfriend they should stay home for some netflix and chill instead of going to the movies. The boyfriend’s urgent denial of them ever doing that, had at the time baffled him.

They order pizza. After dinner they pull out a mattress on the floor in the den for an impromptu wrestling match that thoroughly kills Tom’s knee. (Worth it.) Then they end up in the couch, watching action movies. Justin falls asleep on Tom’s shoulder. 

“Johnny? I'm going to put our baby to sleep. Be right back, okay?” Tom says. 

“Yeah. You do that. I’ll fix more snacks and booze.”

Not that they need it after all full day of drinking. But Tom agrees and rouses Justin enough to tow him upstairs. It’s a challenge. Justin isn’t a featherweight when he’s so drunk he can barely stand. Especially when Tom isn’t exactly steady on his own legs. They make it to Justin’s room, practically falling into bed. Tom might have been able to keep upright, had Justin not held onto him. He lands on top of Justin and heaves himself up to hover above him on bent arms. “Boy, I've wanted you like this since the moment I laid eyes on you.”

Justin’s legs fall apart to accommodate for him. He smiles lazily up at Tom. His eyelids are so heavy he can barely hold them open, the whites of his eyes are red and his hair is a total mess. Even wrecked he is gorgeous. 

“You know, my first thought when I saw you was that you were the snake in Eden,” Tom continues. Justin’s face falls. Alcohol has killed all subtlety out of his body language. Tom sees how the boy is trying to shutter down and get his walls up. That's not what he wants. He strokes Justin over the hair. “But that's not the truth, and we both know it. You’re good and sweet. Your soul is beautiful. _I'm_ the snake, sweetheart. I want to corrupt you so bad. You can’t imagine all the nasty things I've fantasized about doing to you. I want to take that pretty soul of yours and rip it right down to Hell with me.”

Those walls Justin struggled to get up when he was called the snake in Eden came right down again when Tom continued talking. Now one side of his lips draw up in a slow smirk. “Don’t let me stop you,” he says. 

Tom chuckles darkly. “On the contrary, honey. You’re the only one who can. One word. Just say no or stop, and I'll back off. I want my lovers to be willing participants.”

“Oh, I'm willing, Sir,” Justin slurs. But his body is lax and he’s fighting to keep his eyes open. 

Tom bends down and gives him a kiss. “I'm sure you are, gorgeous. But you'll fall asleep any moment, and somnophilia is not on my list of kinks.” Justin closes his eyes and mumbles something incoherently. Tom chuckles and kisses his forehead. “Sleep well, my alluring little otter.” Justin makes a discontent noise when Tom climbs off him, but by the time Tom reaches the door he can hear soft snores from behind. 

Getting down the stairs is a challenge. His knee keeps bending without his control, refusing to hold up his weight on the downstep. He clings to the bannisters all the way down to the den. He can’t see John, and for a moment he's terrified that John somehow soundlessly had gotten up the stairs and seen him lying between Justin’s legs, heard him declare his lust for the boy out loud. 

Icy dread cuts through his inebriation, just long enough for him to regret every truth spoken and every careless action he'd made today. 

Then, John tackles him from behind. 

Tom cries out in startlement and they tumble onto the mattress on the floor, laid out earlier for this exact purpose. John is laughing like a madman. 

“Jesus Christ! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Tom exclaims, pulse jumping furiously as he’s pinned down. 

“Only if you've got a weak heart,” John answers with a taunting grin.

Lord knows he does.

“I'll show you weak,” Tom grits out and heaves himself up, wrapping his arms around John’s torso to wrestle him to the ground. 

It ignites a new round of rough and tumble, because boys will be boys, and you're never too old to play like children. It'll leave them both sore and bruised, but right now none of them cares, laughing themselves breathless. Tom doesn’t really stand a chance. John and he are about the same height, but John is broader, stronger, more buff. None of them are fighters, and Tom ends up on his back with John over him over and over. 

He _really_ doesn't mind. 

It’s just a matter of time before inebriation and fatigue wins out. 

Tom’s once again flat on his back, his neck in a headlock and John’s upper body pressing on his chest, John's legs pointing away from Tom for leverage to keep him down. He taps out, gulping down air chuckling. John remains lying on his side on top of Tom’s chest, only having released the headlock. He's panting, cheeks flushed from exertion, radiating smug triumph. He’s so handsome. The room is spinning slightly. This is so bad. 

“I'm so tired,” Tom says. 

“You've had enough?” John asks teasingly. 

Tom reaches up with the hand not trapped under John’s armpit and tenderly strokes hair out of his face.

“Tom?”

“You’re a very handsome man, John.” Tom combs his fingers through the hair behind John’s ear, restoring it from the disarray their wrestling has caused. 

John’s expression tenses, his smile freezes, and his eyes are alarmed. “Tommy? What are you doing?”

“I'm so tired of all the lies. I wish I could be the man everyone thinks I am, but I can't. I've tried. My parents should have left me to bleed out when they found me in the tub at eighteen. I'm a monster. They should have done the world a favour and let me die,” Tom says serenely. 

John is no longer smiling. The horror in his eyes has nothing to do with the way Tom trails his fingers onto his face and trails his jawbone down to the dimple in his chin. “Jesus, Tom. You’re not a monster. What are you talking about?”

“Sure I am. I’m not the good person you take me for. God will never love me. I’m marked for Hell and I’m so tired. I just want it to end.”

“You want what to end?” 

Tom chuckles. “You know I really bought my gun to fire a single bullet? Now would be a good time. I’ve had such a great day. Why not end it on a happy note?” he says and traces John’s Cupid’s bow. Tom wonders if John’s even aware of the intimate touch of his face anymore. By the terror in his face you might believe he’d walked in to actually find Tom with his brains blown out already. Tom turns his head and tries to look at the safe where he keeps his gun. He squints. The room is spinning. “Too bad that I can’t for my life remember the combination for my safe. I’m too drunk.” He chuckles again. It’s funny.

“Tommy, _no_. Don’t talk like that!” John’s voice in just a harsh terrified whisper and draws Tom’s attention back.

“John. I’m falling. I’m hurdling towards the ground at light speed. When I impact I’m going to hurt everyone near me. You should leave and never think of me again. Save yourself the misery.”

John shakes his head determinedly. He swallows audibly. “That’s not how friendship works. I’m not going anywhere.”

“No, no, no. You’re not listening to me. You gotta listen to me, John. I can feel myself slipping. It’s a matter of time. I’m too tired. I ruined my best friend’s life once by marrying her. You’re my best friend now. I can imagine what I’ll do to you. There’s only pain, angst, and heartbreak up ahead.” Tom cups John’s cheek, stroking the side of his eyebrow with the thumb. “I love you, John. I don’t want that for you. Get out. Get out while you still can. I won’t blame you. It would be a relief. I’m carrying enough guilt as it is.”

“Stop talking like that, Tommy. It’ll be alright, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now. I promise you, one way or another, it’ll be alright. And in the meantime, I’ll stick around, okay? I’m not gonna let you go through this alone. We’re gonna get through this, okay? Whatever it takes.”

Tom closes his eyes with a little smile. “I’m just so.. so… tired.” Sleep takes him then, muting the pleas to hold on. Leaving only blessed, dark oblivion.

* * *

He wakes up lying on his side, with a mild headache, slight nausea, and his knee throbbing painfully. A far lesser hangover than he deserves. It takes a couple of slow moments to orientate himself. He’s fully clothed and lying on the mattress they wrestled on yesterday. It’s the comforter over them throwing him off. Them. That too is confusing. John’s cocooned around his back, an arm around his shoulder and chest. Which means that after Tom fell asleep, John got up, got a comforter for them, then lay back down beside him again _despite_ every couch and bed in the house being free.

“Do you remember yesterday, or did you get another blackout? Because I can explain our position, I swear,” John says, sensing he’s awake. His voice is sleep rough, a bit tense, and possibly the most beautiful thing Tom can imagine hearing right now.

“I remember.”

He can feel the arm around him relaxing. “Good. You gave me quite a scare…”

“That’s what honoured me with the best wake up since I retired? I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be held,” Tom says. _By someone I care for holding me when I wake up,_ he doesn’t add. Cal’s been trying to coax him into staying the night. He isn’t interested in that.

“Don’t make it gay, asshole,” John mutters. “I’m too hungover for this.”

“Then go back to sleep.”

He gets a grunt in reply. Tom closes his eyes. The anxiety hasn’t hit yet, and he is tired. If he could fall asleep again before John gets his wits together and removes his warmth, that would be great. He gets that this intimacy is brought on by fear. He remembers the dread in John’s eyes when he said he’d bought the gun to blow his own brains out. This hold is nothing but a cling to keep a best friend from committing suicide. But beggars can’t be choosers.

John is the first one to fall back to sleep. Tom follows shortly thereafter, when John’s body has gone lax and snores tickles his neck.

The next time he wakes up it’s his bladder demanding he stirs. John wakes up when he tries to dislodge himself from him. This time none of them mention the fact that they were spooning. It’s still the best wake up Tom’s had in a long, long time.

* * *

Justin’s sitting by the table eating breakfast already when Tom limps into the kitchen. Tom notes right away that the piercings are in place. Justin has showered and taken his time to style his hair, along with adding that line of kohl under his eyes, looking like his old self, before the attack.

“Good morning,” Tom says and goes towards the coffeemaker on the counter, hoping his nerves won’t show in his body language. He has a little knot in his belly, but not the giant heap of anxiety maggots he’s still expecting to get. 

“Morning,” Justin answers and tracks Tom’s movements with his eyes. He’s a bit tense and reserved in his posture. When Tom turns his back and takes out a cup out of the cupboard he can hear the telltale * _brrt, brrt, brrt_ * of Justin’s tongue piercing dragging back and forth against his teeth. “Say…” Justin begins hesitantly. “You got any gaps in your memory from yesterday?”

“Why? Is there anything you wish I’d forgotten?” Tom says noncommittally while pouring his coffee.The second time someone’s been worrying he’d forgotten yesterday this morning. (Noon.)

“Nope.”

“I didn’t do anything stupid?” Tom asks, still with his back turned.

“No, Sir.” Justin’s words are short and tense.

Tom drops a lump of sugar in his coffee, takes a teaspoon and begins to stir. “You remember everything that happened yesterday?” he asks. His heart is speeding up.

“Mhm.” Justin’s voice lilts upward on the last ‘hm’.

Tom leans on the counter and closes his eyes. He could say he didn’t remember what they did, what _he_ did. He’d acted so idiotic, so selfish, and been such an asshole. He figures there’s a 99% chance Justin won’t tell him, won’t put into words what they did. It wouldn’t surprise him if something along these lines happened last time he got blackout drunk too, judging by Justin’s response to it yesterday. Justin didn’t call him out on it then, just randomly moped like a kicked puppy.

Tom makes a decision, takes his cup of coffee, throws the teaspoon in the sink (wincing at the loud noise it makes), grabs his pack of painkillers and goes to sit down in the chair beside Justin. He puts the pack and the cup down and turns around in the chair so he’s full on facing Justin. He then reaches out to cup Justin’s chin, leans forward, hesitates just a beat to give Justin the time to get what’s happening and withdraw if that’s what he want. He doesn’t, so Tom places a gentle kiss on his lips, then another one a bit less chaste but just as tender. “So do I, vixen,” Tom says and leans back in his chair again.

The smile that breaks out on Justin’s face doesn’t just reach his eyes, but encompasses his whole being, lighting up the room.

“You realise this is as clandestine as it can get?” Tom asks and takes one of Justin’s hands in his, interlacing their fingers.

“Yes, Sir.”

He really should tell Justin to call him Tom. But he doesn’t trust Justin to keep the distinction in public, so he doesn't. He can’t afford the boy to change his behaviour too much, lest he call attention to the forbidden intimacy between them. “Nobody can know. While you could claim that I forced you, chances are, they won't believe you. That deviant look of yours, however precious and alluring they are to me―and they _are_ ―wrongfully marks you as a child of Satan in the minds of many. They’d say you were to blame. That I'm the one who's the victim. We both know it isn't true. But it puts you in danger.” He doesn’t want to threaten the boy, and he keeps his voice mild, but nevertheless it's important that he realises the danger. Tom’s not 100% sure he'll be able to take full blame when push comes to shove, if he really will be able to look his kids in the eyes and say that he seduced their best friend. If Jessi heatedly said ‘My dad would never!’ and turned to him for confirmation he might break under the pressure. ‘I was so drunk, and he insistently came on to me. I didn’t understand what was happening.’ They might believe him. Many would, solely because they wanted to. Sure, his reputation would be forever smeared, but poor Justin… the repercussions would be so much worse. Tom doesn’t know what he fears the most - the truth coming out, or hearing himself deny it. 

Justin snorts in amusement, still radiant, devastating dimples in place. “No offense, Sir. But there are no victims amongst us.”

And Tom can’t bear snuffing the light out of those mint green eyes. He smiles. “Let's keep it that way,” he says and leans in to kiss the boy good and proper. 

Justin melts into it, opens up to him like it's his purpose in life. (If Tom gets to decide - from now on until he leaves for college, it _is_.) He makes these tiny whimpering noises that makes him sound younger than he is. Tom loosens the reins on his own want. From now on, Justin will have to say ‘Stop’. The makeout turns heated, even if Tom keeps himself above the belt. Justin displays the impatience of the young, a hand finding its way to Tom’s pants, feeling its way to his rapidly filling dick. Tom hisses between his teeth when Justin takes him in a firm grip through the pants.

“Woah,” Justin leans back, rosy cheeked, and glossy eyes gone round. He gives Tom's dick a squeeze, making it stiffen further. Then he looks down and feels the outline, mouth shaped like an O. Tom bites his lip, keeping still under the ministrations, letting the boy process exactly what Tom wants to stick inside of him. “Okay,” Justin says at last, nodding to himself with an expression Tom can’t place, but makes him think of that time Stefan had talked him into bungy jumping. It might have been the expression he wore after looking down just before he took that step over the edge. (Stefan had just taken a running leap, diving headfirst. Beautiful, crazy bastard.)

He can't help the low chuckle escaping. “I wasn’t lying yesterday.”

“No shit,” Justin states dryly.

“I'm not going to do anything to you that you don’t want, Justin. But what I _wish_ to do, is to take you apart in every conceivable way, until you're a total mess, begging me to stop because you can't handle more.”

Justin gives a little nervous laugh, but he looks excited at the prospect. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Have you ever been with a man before?”

“A couple of times,” Justin says with a lopsided cocky smirk, but with an uncertain edge to his voice. Tom guesses it hasn’t been a regular occurrence.

Tom leans back in, puts his lips to Justin’s ear and whispers “You think you can take me?”

Justin shivers. “Yes, Sir…” he breathes.

Tom smiles against the skin behind Justin’s ear, heart jumping excitedly. Funny how the knot in his belly has lessened rather than the other way around. He hears the shower cut off upstairs. It’s just a matter of time before John joins them. He kisses his way down Justin’s throat, shifts to suck at his lower lip, playing with the ring with his tongue, then kisses the boy again, all while one of Justin’s hand massages his cock and the other arm holds onto his shoulders. “ _Shit_.” Tom pulls back, breathing rough. “John’ll be here soon. Keep it on the down low, you irresistible child of Poseidon.” With that he pushes himself away from Justin, moves his chair to a respectable distance and reaches for the bread and butter.

Justin looks dazed. He was definitely not prepared for being abruptly cut off. He’s going to have to get used to it. The times Tom has had to abort abruptly with either fear coursing through his veins or thrills of the risk running up his spine are countless. Being gay meant you could never totally relax where people could see you. You had to be on your guard. Tom gives him a reassuring wink, getting a sheepish smile in response.

When John comes in a few minutes later Tom is munching on a sandwich, reading the newspaper. John takes one look at Justin and stops dead, scowling. “No. No, that’s _not_ okay,” he says and points accusingly at the boy.

Both of them look up, startled. For a beat Tom feels utter dread, wondering what gave them away. Then John adds “Nobody should look that happy when I’m this hungover.”

Tom knees feels like jelly from the sheer relief. He chuckles. “It’s your own damned fault. You don’t want him happy, you shouldn’t have helped him get into college. You’d be happy too, if you knew you’d be out of here in a couple of weeks.”

John grunts and goes to pour himself some coffee. “True. But I don’t have to like it.”

“Hey. We don’t know if I’m gonna get in yet or not,” Justin protests. He’s blushing. He too had gotten a scare. He needs to work on his acting skills. He’ll get there.

“Yes we do,” Tom and John says at the same time, shares a look, and chuckles. (It had played a big part in Tom’s decision to acknowledge what happened yesterday.)

“Whatever,” Justin mutters and looks down on the table, but his dimples betrays the smile.

John walks around the table, ruffles Justin’s hair on his way, snags the sports pages from Tom and sits down. “How can you eat? My head is killing me. Ugh,” he complains.

Tom takes his pack of painkillers, pops two pills out of the blister strip and swallows them down with coffee. Both John and Justin follows his action quietly. It’s the point. He _wants_ them to see. He’s so tired of the constant deception and lies. On that note, starting things up with Justin isn’t doing him any favours. But he’s also tired of constantly denying himself. He throws the pack to John. “Here. Take one.” He turns his head to look at Justin. “You don’t get any. You need anything, you take advil. I don’t know anything about college sports, but if they do drug tests, my stuff might show. And if you mess up your chances to get out of here because of drugs, I’m going to be very disappointed at you. Understood?”

“Yes, Mr.Rainsborough.”

John turns the pack over, reading the back with a squint. “This is strong stuff. You take these every day?” he asks, then opens the pack and takes one.

“I do.”

“How many?” John wants to know.

“Two, four, six. Shit, I don’t know anymore. It varies.”

“ _Every day_?” John asks with raised eyebrows. “In that case, how many had you taken yesterday, before our swim?”

“Three. How so?” Tom asks, sipping his coffee, pretending to be blasé about it. Truth is, he’s not. He’s not sure why he wanted the subject brought up. It’s one of those things he tries to be discreet about. The anger that keeps slipping between the cracks, fuelling him to do idiotic impulsive stuff, doesn’t want anyone to interfere with his self-destruction. At the same time, it may be the same anger that makes him rebellious enough to shove his bad behaviour in John and Justin’s faces, to make sure they will react to it _somehow_.

“Because yesterday in the pool, I caught on that you were a bit high from them. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to be riding high on the one I just took in an hour. But fuck it. I’m on vacation.”

Tom snorts in amusement. “Yesterday I wasn’t trying to keep up appearance.”

“That came through,” John says with a little smirk.

“I apologies if I made you uncomfortable. If it bothered you seeing my true colours, I won’t let it happen again.” 

John’s smirk grows wider. “Not at all. It was the most fun I’ve had in a decade. I’ve told you before, I like you a lot, but when you let loose, I fucking love you, man. And I get it.” John holds up the pack of painkillers to signify what he’s talking about. “It doesn’t begin to cover the shit I got up to when I realised I’d never play professionally again. And it’s better than the alternative.” He gives Tom a pointed look.

“What’s the alternative?” Justin asks.

“Worse,” John says in a tone that tells Justin that an answer won’t be forthcoming.

“Hell,” Tom says, meaning it literally.

* * *


	22. Pagan Worship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Justin finally has some alone time. Smut happens. *cough, cough* But some things also get straightened out between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I blame my Beta for the very existence of this chapter.

“Honey, we've got to stop. John will be back soon.”

Justin makes a frustrated face. “Why is he even still here? He’s got the whole house to himself at home.” He’s still panting laboriously, his chest is red, as well as his face. His hair is sticking to his sweaty forehead and his limbs are post orgasm lax. He’s gorgeous.

“I'm not telling you why, but he’s got good reasons for it. And don’t be a brat about it. He’s been nothing but good to you, and is as welcome here as you are.” Tom’s sitting between Justin’s legs on the bed, stroking his thighs, the taste of Justin’s come still on his tongue. 

Tom’s not going to tell Justin that John’s put Tom on suicide watch. They’re all having great fun, and John’s pretending that he’s here just because he feels like it. But it's not the case, and Tom knows it. Right now John’s gone shopping, leaving Tom some alone time with Justin, but Tom's not been left alone since his impulsively confessed death wish. It hasn't stopped him and Justin from getting at each other, it’s only stopped them from taking their time. So there had been numerous makeout sessions, but this is the first time he’s been able to do more. 

“Yeah, yeah. I know. I _know_. I just want…” Justin makes a frustrated noise. “I want more time. I haven't even seen you naked, for fuck sake.”

“Language,” Tom corrects on auto pilot. 

Justin snorts and heaves himself up, seating himself on Tom’s lap, winding his arms around his neck. He leans in, puts his lips to Tom’s ear and whispers “ _Fuck_.”

Tom sniggers. “Imp.” He’s cocky _now_ , but had been all nerves when Tom took his clothes off and went down on him. “There will be time later. You need to learn patience.”

Justin grinds his naked ass against Tom's clothed erection, making Tom hiss through his teeth. “No. I don’t want to be patient.”

Tom chuckles, grabs Justin’s ass and helps grinding the boy against his cock. “If you’re so impatient, why’d you leave after we cuddled on the couch that night?”

Justin frowns bemusedly. “You told me to leave, Sir.”

“I've been telling you to leave, not to get involved with me, since kissing you in the pool.” 

Justin is already getting hard again, having a refractory period of 0.005 seconds, it seems. “Yeah, but… before that I wasn't sure you wanted to, you know… um. I thought maybe I was imagining things. Especially after the spiel you gave me about informed consent the last time we got drunk together.”

Tom stops kneading Justin’s ass and leans back so he can get a good look at the boy. “Shit. What happened that night? Did I take you to the park and have my way with you like I wanted to? I didn't fuck you, right? If so, you wouldn't have been surprised by how big my dick was. What did I say? What did I do?” Anxiety gnaws at Tom. Whatever happened could _not_ have been good if it made Justin doubt his own allure.

Justin giggles. “You wanted to take me to the park?”

“Yes. When you came up to me in the doorway, hitching your hip the way you do, removing your lenses, all flirt. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask you to go for a walk. I wanted to suck on that pierced tongue of yours, taste your pretty little dick―“

“It’s _not_ little!” Justin scoffs indignantly. 

Tom ignores his protest. He closes his hands around Justin’s dick and starts jerking it off with slow strokes. “―and bend you over any flat surface to fuck you silly,” he finishes and wets a finger in his mouth. The finger then goes around to massage Justin’s rim. He doesn’t push in, only teases.

“I wouldn’t have said no, if you had asked,” Justin says, breath warbly, deliciously easily distracted. 

“I know,” Tom states with a smirk. 

“You’re so full of yourself. I might have said no,” Justin complains in annoyance. 

“Honey, you've been begging for it since my little slip in the kitchen. You think I would ever consider risking _everything_ if I wasn't sure? You might be one of the sexiest creatures to cross my path in a very long time, but I do most of my thinking upstairs. And I like my lovers enthusiastic. I wouldn’t even consider making a move unless I was 95% certain my move was wanted. It would have grave consequences if I did.”

Justin rocks his hips back and forth, fucking into Tom's hand and pushing back on his finger. His eyes are half lidded and his breathing heavy. He has trouble focusing on the conversation. Despite this, the little shit manages to jab at a sensitive spot. “John doesn’t want it. He’s straight. And if he’s ever had a sexy thought about a guy he would have had the gay panic of the century. You’re not even subtle with him. You don’t think that will have consequences?”

“Honey, I'm counting on it.”

“What?” Justin loses his rhythm and stalls. He frowns at Tom, looking confused and upset. 

“Just leave John out of it. We both know he’s not really a threat to you. Same with my wife. I expect you to treat both of them with respect, or this ends now, no matter how badly I want you. Understood?”

“Yes, Mr.Rainsborough.”

“We're getting off topic. What did I do to you the night I don’t remember?”

“Nothing,” Justin says and bends his head down, getting that sulking look on his face.

Tom gives his dick a flick with his fingers, making Justin flinch. “Don’t lie to me. I behaved badly and you were pissed off the day after. The only reason I didn’t ask about it, and apologise then, was that I was still trying to deny to you that I was into men. So spill.”

“Alright, alright,” Justin says moodily. Tom can see he doesn’t want to talk about it. “I, um… John was asleep and we were watching the movie. I was, um, I was leaning on you. You put your arm around me. You were looking at me, not the movie. So I… I… we kissed, alright?” Justin looks up, jaw set in angry defiance.

Tom smiles and strokes his hands up and down Justin’s back soothingly. “I must have been ecstatic, seeing as I wanted to do that for so long. Did I kiss you, or did you kiss me?”

* _brrt, brrt, brrt_ * “I kissed you.” Justin’s chin goes up, as if daring Tom to challenge him.

“Luck favours the brave.”

Justin bends his head again, looking down with a bitter expression, hunching in on himself like he’s ashamed. “Yeah, well… apparently not,” he mutters.

Tom puts a finger under Justin’s chin and bends his head up, serious now. “Did I hurt you?”

“No. I just…”

He combs through Justin’s hair, making his features mild and caring, despite the guilt and anxiety that’s started welling up inside. “Please tell me, Justin. Whatever happened. I can see you’re ashamed. Don’t be. It’s behind us, okay? And I’m sure that I wronged you somehow, considering how drunk I was.”

“That was the problem. We were both drunk and you… you…”

“Tell me, sweetheart,” Tom coaxes.

“Okay. We were making out. You seemed really into it.”

“I was. I don’t have to remember, to know that.”

“Yeah. Okay. But you told me to stop. Then you urged me on. Then told me no again, but you kept on touching me. And then you told me to turn over so I lay with my back against your chest. And your fucking hands… Let’s just say, you seemed like you knew exactly what you were doing. You kept pushing us to move forward, and at the same time you kept saying stop. It was really confusing. But I was super turned on and went with what your actions told me, not your words. I mean, Jesus fuck! You told me to stop and kept kissing me! How am I supposed to―! But then you told me you’d expected better from me. And that you needed to explain informed consent to me. And that you were disappointed in me. And I―“ Justin cuts off his increasingly upset rant and averts his gaze to the side. The telltale _brrt_ noise revealing how upset he is. What Tom sees is someone looking grievously guilty, but not understanding why.

“I put it all on you? Shit. That’s just plain wrong, Justin. Especially if I kept going. I’m really sorry.”

“I know about informed consent okay?” Justin says, looking up. “But it can be given both by word _and_ deed. One girl I was with for a while, she was really into the whole saying ‘no’ but meaning ‘yes’. For real. I don’t mean, like, being forced and held down and stuff. But she was all giggly and ‘No, we shouldn’t,’ and at the same time spread her legs to let me in. She’d say stop too, you know? But if I stopped she’d get pissy. I mean, come on! I was drunk too. And you were into it. You _were_!”

“Justin. Did you go all this time, thinking you forced yourself on me?”

“Yeah. No. I mean, yeah. At first I didn’t. I was angry, thinking you were being unfair. But the more I thought about it, the less certain I got. Maybe I’d misread the situation? Yeah, you were turned on. But I thought, maybe you weren’t into guys after all, and just too drunk to get the difference. Maybe the confidence and skill you had was just a fluke.”

Tom chuckles. “Believe me, it’s not a fluke. I’ve been with one woman in my life, and that’s Grace. But I’ve been with many men. Both had dirty one night stands, and long loving relationships. You did not force yourself on an unwilling straight man. Chances are, that telling you to stop was me trying to convince myself, because this,” he strokes his hands along Justin’s arms and smiles, “is a homewrecking folly of major proportions that will doom you to hell. And I didn’t want to take advantage of you so selfishly. But you’re so hard to resist.”

Some of the old cockiness bleeds back into Justin’s posture and expression. His eyes narrows with mirth and his lips quirk upward. “I am, aren’t I?”

“You are,” Tom agrees. “But tell me, when did you feel certain again that I wasn’t straight after that?”

“In the pool.”

Tom raises his eyebrows in surprise. “How on earth could you construe my behaviour when we cuddled as straight?”

Justin grins sheepishly. “I didn’t. I thought you were gonna kiss me. But I wasn't sure. The other alternative was that you were being nice. I felt really pathetic after confessing how afraid I was. I thought maybe you were acting fatherly, or something.”

Tom laughs in startlement and a little bit of horror. “You really think I was acting _fatherly_?”

“No. Not even close. But you know…” Justin shrugs. 

“Justin, we haven't even begun to cover the things I was thinking of doing to you then. And I would have kissed you if you had refused to leave. I think you've interpreted me correctly every step of the way. I've just been fighting it, for reasons you should be able to understand.”

Justin’s mood is back to playful. “Yeah, I guess. So can we get back to do all those things you were thinking of?”

“I'd like to, you impatient little imp. But John― “

“Oh my god. You've got to learn how to lie to get what you want,” Justin says, lets go of Tom’s neck and flops himself backward onto the bed. He reaches for his phone on the nightstand and dials a number. 

“Hi, John. Um… I was wondering…” He sounds really remorseful and uncertain when he talks, there’s nothing to give away that he’s just come down Tom's throat after some heavy frottage and nipple play (damn that piercing!). “I'm talking with Tom and, um… We're talking about something really sensitive, and… um. I. Could you give us some space? Just a couple of hours? I um… ….. thank you. No, no. I just … it's hard talking about this and I― … yeah. Sure! Sounds great! Thanks, John. I mean it. Bye.” He hangs up with a self satisfied smirk and wiggles his eyebrows at Tom, dropping the phone on the mattress. 

“You conniving little shit,” Tom says, grinning. 

“He'll be back at 6. We've got _hours_.”

Tom grabs Justin’s hips and flips him over. “Suit yourself, sweetheart,” he says and pulls Justin’s ass up by the grip on his hips. Justin laughs and turns his head to look at Tom, who’s stroking his ass cheeks. Justin blushes. He’s smiling, but looking embarrassed. Being on all fours with his naked ass on display is not a daily occurrence for him. “You said you've been with guys before?”

“Yeah. My parents put me in an all boys school to stop my so called sinful ways. It didn't work.”

“I can see that. Did you top or bottom?” Tom asks and spreads Justin’s cheeks to get a good look at his pretty little hole. That Justin shaves, he already knew. That’s to do with his swimming. But that he shaves everywhere is a pleasant surprise. Justin turns his head away, further embarrassed by the intimate scrutiny. 

“Both? Um… just a couple of times. I haven't done it that many times, Sir.”

“Teacher or students?” Tom wants to know.

“Students.”

“And how did it feel, bottoming?”

“Hurt like a bitch. But felt good after a while.”

“Then I've got great news for you. Because it will barely hurt at all when I fuck you. You'll be so thoroughly prepped it'll feel like a relief when I finally come inside of you,” Tom purrs. Justin giggles nervously. 

“We'll see ab― _ooip!_ ” Justin makes a shocked little yelp when Tom leans forward and licks his hole, tongue flat. His body goes rigid and stock still. 

“You ever been eaten out, Justin?”

“No, Sir.”

“It's something I like both doing and have done to me. Tell me if you don't like it, otherwise, enjoy.” Then Tom dives back in. The first minute Justin’s tense. But when Tom pushes his tongue in a bit, Justin makes one of his wonderful little whimpering noises and begins to relax. After that it doesn't take long to get him to the state of a whimpering mess. Tom adds a finger to the game, then another one, beginning the process of readying Justin to take him. By the time Tom flips him over Justin is pliant goo in his hands. He takes a pack of lube from his pocket and switches to using only fingers while kissing Justin’s thighs, stomach, and chest. 

He’s feeling a bit mean, because he's not touching Justin’s dick. He’s also deliberately avoided his prostate, out of curiosity. The amount of pleasure Justin seems to be getting anyway is intoxicating. 

“You want me to fuck you, sweetheart?”

Justin whines in response. 

“No, boy. _Say it_.”

“Yes!”

“Yes, what?” Tom demands. He’s thrilling at the sinfulness of this. Justin’s barely legal, as far as he’s concerned. Logically based thoughts have gone down the drain when he’s this turned on. He feels like the big bad wolf. The uneven power balance that usually bothers him, is only turning him on even more. A very guilty pleasure. One Sam had both shared and demanded he indulged.

“Yes, Mr.Rainsborough, Sir.”

Justin’s lack of confidence in this situation fuels Tom's desire. Briefly he wonders why it feels so good to be bad. He undoes his belt and unbuttons his shorts. He takes a condom and another pack of lube out of his pocket, gets to his feet and takes off his shorts and underwear. Justin’s staring apprehensively up at him. He’s so hot. Tom loves how his face gets all blotchy red, his chest too, when he's panting and sweaty from arousal. His mouth is hanging open, the silver of his bellbar glinting inside. Better yet, Justin’s wearing a necklace. It’s a silver cross, contrasting deliciously against his blushed chest. Tom gives Justin a moment to take him in, letting the boy look at his naked form, smirking at the way Justin’s eyes lock on his cock. Justin swallows visibly, then waits. “You want this in you?” Tom says, grabbing his cock, stroking it languidly.

“Yes, Sir.” Justin’s definitely nervous again, but he’s not changing his mind. Which is good, because Tom wants to come inside of him so badly. 

Tom gets to his knees between Justin’s knees again. He opens the condom pack, puts the condom on, opens the lube pack and lubes himself up, then lift Justin’s legs up to rest on his shoulders. “You’re infinitely hot, sweetheart. I've been wanting to do this so long. You have no idea how many times I've jerked off thinking of you.” He caresses Justin’s sides up to his chest, pinches one nipple and pulls lightly on the nipple piercing on the other. 

Justin chortles, all dimples and nerves. Tom grabs his own dick in a firm hold and starts pressing in, watching Justin carefully. The boy is well prepped, but nerves has him tensing up. He knows that Justin is more than willing to do this. Justin doesn’t consider himself used anymore than Sam did. And maybe that's why the thought that he’s talking advantage of him is so fire inducing. All the things that has kept Tom from starting this―Grace, the congregation, the sin of it, the fact that it's his kids’ best friend, _younger_ than Jessi (if only by a few months)―are things that makes this a thousand times more arousing. It’s not an uncommon fantasy. Porn sites, straight or gay alike, are full of videos on this theme. ‘Married man fucks son's/daughter's best friend, or better yet - ‘Married man fucks daughter's boyfriend’. He'll never get why the things he'll carry the heaviest burden of guilt for, are the things that drives him so madly aroused. It’s literally the only way this could be hotter - if Justin was dating Jessi. He thanks his lucky star that Justin _isn’t_. He wouldn’t know how to live with himself if he betrayed her in such manner.

He’s so swept up in desire, in the wrongness in what they're doing. It’s so dirty. There’s no conceivable way it can get dirtier. Or so he thinks, until words slip out of his mouth and it _does_. Pushing in slowly, he leans down for a kiss, then puts his lips to Justin’s ear and says, “ _Shhh_. Relax. Just let it happen. Juuust let it happen.”

Justin takes it as a comfort and relaxes, letting him in. But that's not what _he_ associates the phrase with. He’s a bad, _bad_ man for saying it. 

He sees in Justin’s face when he’s reached his limit. Should he push further, it would hurt. He pulls out a bit and holds still, breathing strained. Justin’s so tight and hot around him, and he's so turned on, it's stretching his self control to the limit. But no matter how dirty and bad his thoughts and fantasies are, he wants it to be good for Justin. “You alright, sweetheart?” he asks, voice barely steady.

Justin nods, panting. It’s not good enough. Tom holds still a while longer, just observing, until Justin finally catches onto what he wants. “Yes, Sir.”

He’ll be lying if he said it isn’t criminally hot to be addressed that way right this instance. “Good.” He smiles and kisses Justin as he begins to move, slowly at first. But then Justin begins move with him, making sounds somewhere between whimpers and moans, so he speeds up. Tom sits up, pulls Justin higher up on his thighs to get the right angle, and grinds his hips in a rolling motion. All it takes is a few rolls for him to find the spot.

“Jeezus fuck, fuck, _fuck_!” Justin exclaims, eyes going wide and hands burying themselves in the sheets, clenching at the fabric. Another hiproll and Justin squeezes his eyes closed. “Oh, God!” He’s leaking a long string of precome onto his belly. Tom lets go of his hip with one hand to drag a finger through it and taste it. Justin has such a pretty little dick. (It’s not _that_ little. 5 inches perhaps. Nothing to be ashamed of.) Tom wishes he could suckle it and pound the boy's prostate at the same time. 

“You magnificent little son of the sea. Have you any idea how sexy you are? I have to pace myself not to come right away, and that’s all your doing,” Tom says, grinding again. 

Eyes still screwed shut and making a suffering noise, Justin smiles, red cheeks dimpling. No fantasy can ever beat the reality of having him laid out like this. As Tom speeds up his pace, Just lets out loud moans. Tom stops moving and falls forward to speak softly in Justin’s ear. “Can you be quiet for me, honey? Right now, nobody’s at home. But I need to know if you can be quiet when they are, or if we can only do this when we’re alone.”

“Jesus!”

“Guess again, sweetheart. Will you be quiet?”

“Y-yes, Mr.Rainsbo-borough,” Justin stutters breathlessly. His eyes are open, dazed and feverish. He has the holy-shit-what-just-happened look of someone who’s just been flung from the roof of a building only to land on their feet, unscatched. 

Dark heat claws at Tom’s insides. This must be the hunger sharks feel when they smell blood in the water. This is the Devil’s gospel. God doesn’t want his prayers and his devotion. Then let God sit on his elevated throne and sneer down upon him, like he’d care. Let this beautiful boy be the golden calf - he’ll worship like a heathen.

He pushes himself up, grabs Justin’s hips in a firm grip, leans backward and starts thrusting. The angle prevents him from going to deep and makes him hit home with every snap of his hips. Justin cries out once, sucks in a breath and bites his lip. He grabs the headboard behind him, white knuckled, sweat coated, mouth once again falling open in a wordless, silent cry. Obediently silent, gasping, defenseless.

Tom gives it all he’s got. Feral, debased, relentless―barely holding on to self control―pounding any innocence and chance of salvation out of the boy. His damaged knee screams. It’s like someone’s driven a hot knife into it. He’d played several games with that pain, trying to cover up for how badly he was damaged. It wasn’t until the leg started to fold of its own accord they’d found him out and sentenced him to the prolonged suffering his life had become. He’ll pay for ignoring the pain now, but by all the things that are holy, this moment is worth it! Justin looks like he’s having a divine revelation and Tom’s enchanted. 

Justin throws his head back, his cock slapping against his belly and his balls pulling upward, he’s close. Tom’s wearing out, but it gives him the incentive he needs to give that extra push, speeding up another notch. 

Justin throws his hand out, grabs a pillow and covers his face with it, hugging it. He comes, back arching in a bow, letting out a scream - muted by the pillow and his arms, shooting his load in long stripes over his belly and chest. Some of it landing on the silver cross, glued to his chest by sweat. He clenches so hard around Tom, Tom has to let go with a hand to circle the base of his cock tightly not to come right along with the boy, hissing through his teeth. He pulls out, or not even that would stop him. Justin goes lax, pillow and arms falling away to reveal his red, dazed, and smiling face.

Tom backs up and bends down to lick Justin’s dick clean, milking it for the last drops. Justin twitches and presses a hand over his mouth and nose to keep his heady little whimpers in. Tom licks his way upward, cleaning Justin up. When he reaches his chest he sucks the cross into his mouth to clean it. Surprised, he feels a tightening inside downlow, his cock once again trying to come and has to be stopped by another firm grip around its base―all because the wretched symbolism in what he’s doing. He spits the cross out and goes up to kiss Justin instead, both panting from exertion.

“ _Wow_ ,” Justin says when he’s collected his wits about.

“You’re a wickedly beautiful marvel,” Tom answers and strokes the hair out of Justin’s face with lips quirked into a smile.

“Did you come?” Justin asks, raising his eyebrows with hopeful curiosity.

Tom chuckles and gives him a peck on the lips. “Not yet. I had to stop myself several times. I don’t recuperate as fast as I did when I was younger. It takes time for me to reload once I’ve fired,” He answers with a warm grin. He can feel sweat trickle down his cheek and between his shoulder blades. “I’d like for you to ride me. Would you do that for me, sweetheart?”

Justin moves as to get up, so Tom puts a hand in his chest and presses him back down, getting a questioning look from the young man.

“Not in here. If we’re going to hell, we might as well do it properly…”

“What do you mean?”

Tom whispers his suggestion in Justin’s ear. Justin’s face goes blank for a beat, then he lets out a breathy chortle. “Um. Yeah. Sure. We can do that. Sir.”

This time when Justin gets to his feet, Tom follows him, teeth bared in what would pass for a smile but is nothing but a vicious show if depraved hunger, fueled by the same fire that had him slamming the door on his parents. The biggest ‘Fuck you!’ he can think of to give God for the unjust destiny he’d given Tom. His leg is throbbing, knives drilling into his knee with every step. It’s worth it.

Justin leads the way to the master bedroom, a room Tom hasn’t slept in for weeks. Inside, Justin is the one to put a hand on Tom’s chest pushing him back onto the marital bed where Noah was conceived and Grace had had to suffer through too many failed attempts at love making. It’s a how-low-can-you-go moment, and Tom’s rock hard. He crawls himself backward, up to lay his head on a pillow, and points at his nightstand. “There’s lube in there.”

“Yes, Sir,” Justin answers, opens the drawer and takes the bottle. He uncaps it, pours some in his hand, and puts the bottle back, all with a wicked grin on his face. Then he crawls onto the bed, lubes Tom up, biting his lip. He straddles Tom, moves Tom’s cock into position, and sinks down on it. Tom’s eyes fall shut. He’s too close already, hovering at the edge even through the pain in his leg. This desire is so forbidden, so dark and vile. Yet his heart is in it too, unlike the idiocracy he’s been up to at the club. He strokes Justin’s thighs and lets the boy take control.

Justin falls forward and begins to move, supporting himself on his elbows on either side of Tom’s head. Tom _wants_ to ram right into him. (He doesn’t. It’d hurt the boy.) “Juss, I’m not going to last long.”

“Yeah?” 

Tom opens his eyes. Justin’s eyes are aglow, icy green, and delighted. “Not long at all. You want to draw this out, go slow. Otherwise―“ Tom breaks off, hissing through his teeth as Justin’s response is to speed up with a deep chuckle. 

Tom grabs his ass and helps support his movements. The silver cross hits his chin with every movement and the bed creaks. It’s all slick sweat, raspy breaths and heat. Tom closes his eyes and is swept up. He opens his mouth and catches the cross in his mouth, brows draw down. His arm goes to circle Justin, holding on, hands fanned out over his back. He bites down on the cross as he falls over, tongue pressed against it. In this moment there's only pleasure and glorious, dark desire. 

Justin slows down, looking down on him with open mouthed awe. Tom can relate. Seeing your partner come is a thing of beauty. Tom―jellied, blissed―strokes his back, one hand going down to feel Justin’s cock almost habitually, only to find the boy hard _again_. “Shit, honey, you just bounce right back, don't you?” he says, voice breathy of exhaustion. Without much thought he starts jerking Justin off. Justin makes one of his delicious little noises and sits up, leans back, hands placed firmly on Tom’s chest. It doesn’t take long before Justin comes. _Again_. He’s pumping mostly air by now and it might be bordering on painful. “Shit. Fuck. How many times can you come?” Tom asks as Justin falls forward, spasming and whining. “You’re incredible, sweetheart.”

Justin lets out a suffering laugh. Tom pulls out of him and tips him to lie on his side beside Tom. Justin’s lax and easy to maneuver. Tom pulls him close and trails gentle fingers over him, tracing the art on his arm and pectoral. He places gentle kisses on Justin’s face and shoulder, all tender affection now that the feral heat has dissipated. Justin’s smiling tiredly. “I'm not _that_ inexperienced,” he states sated and smug. 

“You’re great, honey. I've trouble keeping up,” Tom humours him. He drags a finger over Justin’s lower lip, pulling it down to get a glimpse of the bellbar inside. “If I get the chance to ever feel that pierced tongue on my cock, I won’t last long.”

No sooner has he uttered his wish than Justin moves to sit up. Tom laughs and pulls him back down. “Not now, you little energizer bunny. Give an old man some time to rest.”

“You’re not that old. You like my tongue piercing?” Justin knows he does. It couldn't possibly have passed him by. 

“I'm mad about all your piercings, Juss. But this one,” he pulls the nipple ring, “and this one,” he pushes his finger against Justin’s lips until he opens his mouth to let the finger in to touch the tongue, “puts me firmly under your spell.”

Justin closes his lips around Tom’s finger and plays with his tongue around it. Tom hisses between his teeth in appreciation. “This is how pagans worship,” he states. 

Justin’s distracted by the statement and laughs. “They might be onto something, Sir,” he grins.

“Mhm. Agreed,” Tom chuckles. “Is there anything we’ve done today that you didn’t like?”

Justin gives an amused, sceptical snort. “Yeah. That’s likely,” he says dryly and raises an eyebrow in a typical are-you-fucking-stupid? fashion.

Tom flicks his shoulder with a finger in reprimand. “Don’t sass me, boy,” he chastises with amusement. “I want to find out every single one of your preferences and what makes you tick. I may try doing things that's out of your comfort zone. If you don’t like something, say it, don’t endure it.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” Justin says, averting his gaze to the pillow.

“I’m serious, Justin. Don’t be afraid to wound my pride. When it comes to sex, I have none.” Tom bops his nose with a little smile and combs through Justin’s hair. 

Justin chuckles and looks back at him. “How bout you? You really like my piercings, right?”

“Mhm.”

“You prefer rings or bellbars?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah? So if I’d trade this one for a bar,” he touches his eyebrow ring, “you’d still like it?” Tom nods. “Or, if I’d switch this for a spike?” Justin touches his lip ring. 

Tom shrugs a shoulder. “It’s more that you have them that does it for me.”

Justin grins in pure delight. “That’s great, because I’ve got more jewelry than Jessi.”

Tom smiles in bemusement. “I’ve never seen you in anything but these.”

“No. Not here. I used to switch often, but I’m considered enough of a freak as it is now.”

“You’re not a freak.”

“You’ve got that right, Sir,” Justin says with a smirk. He tips them both over so Tom lies on his back again, with Justin resting on his chest. “How many guys have you been with?”

Tom closes his eyes and shakes his head, smiling. Dangerous grounds, these kinds of questions. “I don’t know,” he says, stroking Justin’s back slowly up and down.

“You _don’t know_ ,” Justin says, sounding baffled.

Tom opens his eyes and looks at him. “It’s nothing I’m proud of. If I had my way I would have been able to count my sexual partners on one finger. Alas, that’s not how it is. I’ve travelled a lot as you know. Kept steady boyfriends when I could. But Lord knows I’ve had my shares of one night stands and quick hookups with nameless partners too. When I’ve been single, not counting Grace, I’ve taken the opportunity when it arose. I’m a depraved man, Justin.”

“Huh. No wonder you’re so good.”

Tom chuckles. “Stroke my ego, will you? But that’s more a matter of having had steady boyfriends to experiment with, and a wish to see my partner enjoy themselves. A high number of partners is nothing to strive for. It makes you good at flirting, not good at giving pleasure. And what’s good to some, isn’t for others. Not everyone likes to be rimmed, or have their prostate pounded for an instance.”

Justin giggles and bites his lip. “I’ve never, um, I’ve never had a prostate orgasm before. Those times I’ve done it with a guy, I’ve never… they’ve never hit home, so to speak.” He’s blushing furiously and Tom can’t help but to smile. For all his bluster he’s still wonderfully innocent. A far cry from his assertive kid. He remembers Sam lying on his back, naked save for a letterman jacket, jerking off, telling him how he wanted to be fucked. Sam’s voice a clear memory.’ _..taking me roughly,_ mercilessly… owning me. Marking me up with hickeys and telling me I'm yours like I ain’t got no choice in the matter...fucking me so hard I won't be able to walk straight afterwards. Punishing me for what I tempt you to do... Sweat coating us, soaking my sheets in our scent. Make it happen, Tom.’ Nobody will ever measure up. Ever.

“I take it you liked it?”

“Yes, Siree. And you were right. It barely hurt.” Justin’s beautiful green eyes are shining merrily, dimples deep.

“Told you. Prepping is everything. And you can never have too much lube. How many have you been with?” Tom asks curiously. 

“Guys or girls?”

“Both.”

“Four girls and two guys. How was your first time with a guy? How old were you?” Justin’s enthusiastic about this back and forth questioning.

“Abysmal,” Tom answers, reluctant to share the details about how he’d been raped with Justin. “I was sixteen. But the second guy I was with was great. He played in my team in Germany and I was head over heels for him. You been with kids your age or with older people?”

“I’m not a kid.”

Tom chuckles. “Sorry. Have you been with people your own age or older people?” he humours Justin.

“My own age. Have you ever had a threesome?”

“Yes. Have my kids had sex yet?”

Justin laughs. “You think I would tell you?”

“Shit. Can’t blame a guy for trying?” Tom excuses himself with a grin.

* _brrt, brrt, brrt_ * Justin looks at him with narrowed eyes for a while, contemplating. Then he shrugs. “No. None of them are into the no sex before marriage schtick. But Noah wants to wait until the right one comes along. He’s got some wicked self control, I’ll tell you that.”

“And Jessi?”

The smirk that grows on Justin’s face is downright evil. “Let's just put it this way, college will be _good_ for her,” he says meaningfully, then promptly burst out laughing at Tom’s grimace. “Hey, you _asked_!”

“Foolish of me. Shit. I should have known better.”

“Yeah. But I doubt Jessi will get in trouble. She’ll be picking the guys, not the other way around. And from what they’ve told me, you and Grace have been preaching safe sex rather than abstinence?” Justin shifts from impishness to curiosity.

Tom remembers when Jessi had had her first sex ed lesson in school and came home crying, terrified. Apparently the teacher had told the class that a woman was like a chewing gum and nobody wants to chew a gum somebody else had already chewed on, and the more times a woman had sex the looser her vagina got until it was no longer felt good for a man to enter her. When she finally calmed down enough to talk about why she was so terrified she’d asked ‘But what if I get raped? I’ll be ruined for all eternity! Nobody will want to have me.’ Needless to say Tom and Grace had been equally upset that the school would make their daughter feel that way.

They’d called Noah there to go through how it really was―that the vagina was a muscle and could be just as tight after passing a baby as before, that a woman was just as much worth even if she’d had sex, but there was a great risk for catching STDs and therefore shouldn’t risk it without a condom outside of a marriage and even then condoms weren’t failsafe. They’d talked about all kinds of things within the topic and it had been the single handedly most embarrassing and awkward discussion he’s had with his children. By the end of it both children, Grace and Tom had been all been blushing and giggling.

“Yes. Sex will happen no matter what the church says. While I think it should first and foremost happen within the sanctity of marriage, or at the very least within a long, loving relationship, reality doesn’t match the ideal. After all, we’re wired to get horny,” Tom says and wiggles his eyebrows meaningfully. He’s rewarded with another one of those dimpled grins.

“What turns you on?”

“All kinds of things. It’s a hard question to answer since what I like hinges a lot on what my partner likes. Nothing turns me on more than seeing my partner madly aroused.”

“What turns you off?”

“Hm.” Tom thinks for a bit. “I’d definitely opt out if shit or pee comes into play. Humiliating or hurting my partners. Fisting. I don’t know. I consider myself fairly open minded. Why? Is there something you want to try?”

“No, Sir. Well, yeah. Like, _everything_. But no.”

They lie for a while, just talking, mostly about sex. Then they go to take a shower, where it proves that Tom has rested enough and could get it up again. Tom thinks that those who claim shower sex is complicated are frigging amateurs. Once again he ignores the way his leg is screaming in agony at him to coax another orgasm out of the both of them.

By the time John gets back Tom is cooking dinner for the three of them and Justin’s (scurrying to the living room when he hears John’s car) watching TV.

John’s in a great mood. And when he puts a hand on Tom’s shoulder and leans his head on it to look at what Tom's making, making a joking remark about how he should trade his wife for Tom based on cooking skills alone, Tom’s feelings are going haywire. He _knows_ John doesn’t mean it _that_ way. He knows it. But the heart does not differentiate. These days have been catastrophic, crush wise. It’s no longer low key. Instead of making some joking remark right back, he holds up a spoon by his shoulder for John, angling his head so he can see John open his mouth and taste. When John closes his mouth around the spoon he side eyes Tom, notices that Tom's looking and gets stuck, gazes locked. Tom sees the distress mount in John’s eyes when Tom doesn’t avert his eyes. The tension shoots sky high from one moment to another as John registers how intimate it is, leaning over Tom's shoulder, being hand fed, heads way to close. 

John backs up, making some bad joke, laughs nervously and blushes. He makes some excuse about joining Justin by the TV and flees.

Tom’s left with a furiously pounding heart and belly full of butterflies, wondering what the Hell he’s doing. 

He doesn’t want to stop until they string him up in the closest tree.

It would finally be over. 

He just wishes he could stop thinking ‘If only…’ in these polaroid moments with John.

* * *


	23. Flirting With Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not a date. It isn't. But it sure as hell feels like one!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention of racial slur in this chapter.  
> (But really... 'Slurs' is the second tag for this fic, so... just thought I'd give you a heads up)
> 
> In the ChHL the players pay escrow to the league to guarantee that all players will get paid even if the team for one reason or another can't pay. If the league is successful the players get the escrow back, or part of it, depending. It's loosely based on NHL.

## Summer 2014

Having people care is a bother. Tom wants to scream at John to go away and never come back. Earlier today John had come down to the den, found Tom cleaning his gun, and nervously (trying to hide his worry) asked what he was doing. He was _just cleaning his gun_ for god’s sake! No hidden motives. If John could take it away from him, he would. But he can’t. So they’re having an argument. 

Justin’s been forced to go home by his parents. Something about visiting grandparents, which sucks. So now there’s only him and John. Which could be great, if John could stop treating him as a bomb ready to go off. Or at least speak plainly about it. This is just ridiculous. 

“And what does it matter where I sleep?” Tom snaps. Oh, he knows. John doesn’t want him left alone in the same room as the gun. 

“I’m just saying, Grace isn’t at home, there’s no reason for you to sleep in the den. Sleep in a real bed for once. It isn’t good for your back to lie like that. I can sleep in the den,” John argues frustratedly, following Tom through the house towards the staircase. Like there wasn't a perfectly good guestroom he'd been sleeping in all along. 

_Yes, because_ that’s _fucking perfect. Placing yourself between me and my gun. Because I'm not an adult with mandate to make my own friggin choices or anything_ , Tom thinks with sarcastic bitterness. 

“Unless you’re sleeping _with me_ , you’ve got no say in where I’m sleeping!” Tom answers forcefully and whirls around to put a finger in John’s chest. He’s momentarily distracted by how the 2 pm sunlight filters in through a window, hitting John’s eyes _juuust_ so, making them seem to glow like polished chestnuts. He’s so handsome. If he could just…not be, that would help. Tom spins around again and keeps walking. The pain in his leg is horrendous, lacing its way up to his hip and spine, going all the way to his neck, giving him a headache. That’s his own damned fault. He’d deliberately not taken his painkillers yesterday evening or today. Something that surprisingly had worried John, but Justin had considered a good thing. Justin’s right. It’s a good thing. Tom deserves being punished for what he’s doing. He deserves all the pain and every misfortune coming his way. 

John’s concern is rising to annoyance due to to Tom’s angry rebellion. “Dammit, Tommy! Think! You're not taking care of yourself.”

Tom stomps angrily down the stairs towards the den, looking over his shoulder, John one step behind. “So what? Who made it _your_ job? I'm a grown man. Leave me alone! It’s none of your business wh―“

His leg folds, refusing to hold his weight. 

If John hadn’t been breathing down his neck and reacted the moment he started to fall, he would probably have tumbled helplessly all the way down. But John grabs a hold of his upper arm. It’s not enough to prevent a fall, but it only makes him fall about two steps, twisting his body. He doesn’t black out, but he’s aware of nothing but pain for an indiscernible amount of time. It takes his breath away and sends his heart racing. 

“Tommy! Tom! Hey, Tommy. Look at me!”

When he starts getting aware of his surrounding again he’s half lying, half sitting in the stairs, leaned against the wall. His legs are sprawled haphazardly and John’s crouched between them, Tom’s upper arm still clutched in a vice grip. He must have hit his back in the fall, a wrist may be sprained, his hip and leg riddled with excruciating pain―he’s shaking from it, sucking in shuddering breaths. He can feel cold sweat starting to break out across his skin.

“Tommy! Are you with me?” John’s handsome features are distorted by fear and worry. Tom wants to cling to him and cry his eyes out.

Instead he pushes at John’s chest. “I'm fine. Get away from me.”

John won’t budge an inch. All solid, beautiful and determined. “You’re not fine. Tom, your face is ashen. We should go to a hospital.”

“No. It'll pass. I'm fine. I misstepped, that's all.” Tom swallows and closes his eyes, trying to will the pain to bearable levels. He tries to bend his damaged knee, but it’s still not cooperating. 

“No you didn't. I saw you. Does this happen often?” John asks, hooking his free hand around Tom’s clammy neck. 

“No. I've just over taxed the leg. I'll be fine in a minute or two.” Hopefully. 

_Jesus! I could have broken my neck!_

The thought comes with tendrils of fear along his spine. He has to remind himself that that would have been a good thing. Just, maybe… not in front of his best friend?

“I still think we should go to the hospital and check you―“

Tom opens his eyes and scowls at John. “I said no! I don’t want you here! When will you get it? Just go! _Leave me alone!_ ” Tom punches weakly at John’s chest. He can’t muster enough strength to punch hard. 

John seemingly couldn't care less about Tom’s vehemence. “I'm not going anywhere. And you don’t want me to leave. You don’t think I get that you’re lashing out like a scared and wounded animal? I'm not leaving. You’re stuck with me.”

“I wish that was true,” Tom mutters unthinkingly.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just go, Johnny.”

“Can you walk?”

“Not yet. I'll be fine in a minute,” Tom lies again. He'll never be fine. John moves. Tom closes his eyes, thinking John will finally leave him alone so he can cry. But John moves down, not up, and suddenly arms come around his back and under his knees. Tom’s eyes fly open. Instinct has him winding his arms around John’s neck and leaning towards him to help holding up his weight. “Jesus, John. Put me down. You could hurt yourself. What about your arm?”

“We need to get you upstairs and checked over. You can rest on the couch,” John says and lets out a strained _ouff_ when he heaves Tom up in a bridal carry. “Don’t worry about my arm. As long as I don’t do repetitive ball throwing I’m fine nowadays.” He adjusts Tom’s weight and starts staggering upstairs.

“John. You don’t have to take care of me. I don’t want to be a burden,” Tom says, leaning his head against John’s shoulder to put as much of his weight as close to John’s body as possible. The easier he is to carry, the less risk for John to get hurt.

“You’re not a burden, Tommy.” John’s voice is strained. He’s focused on taking one step upward at a time.

“Well… technically…” Tom manages to joke through the nauseating pain.

John snorts in amusement. “Now’s not a good time to make me laugh, moron. We’ll both fall.”

It’s on the tip of Tom’s tongue to say something about how he wouldn’t mind if John fell for him, but he stops himself and lets himself be carried. John gets them upstairs and to the living room where he almost tips over when putting Tom down on the couch.

“Wait here,” John says and turns to leave.

Like he _could_ walk away. “Real funny, jerk,” Tom snaps, but inwardly finds it a bit funny. Even more so when he hears John laugh as he walks away.

Tom closes his eyes and concentrates on breathing. He’s been through this before. One nasty accident, rehab, back on the ice, another bad hit that tore up the injury again, more rehab, back on the ice, lying to his coaches and the team’s medical team. Playing through the pain and _still_ loving to play. Pushing himself to the limit. A fall during practise and more rehab. Never getting really well, but pretending to when the discussions started if he really could be kept on. Playing through more, increasingly acute pain and _still_ loving it. But the body doesn’t take shit. The body doesn’t give a shit if you love what you do. It tells you to stop, screaming ‘You’re hurting me!’ on top of it’s lungs. And if you don’t listen… well. 

The first times his leg just stopped working it had been brief moments no one saw. It just folded on a downstep while walking―just like when you’ve sat on it too long and it’s fallen asleep―but worked just fine the next moment. But that’s when the real fear gripped him. Fear it would be over. He kept playing. For a while there had been very little pain. Then the leg started to give way on the ice. The further he pushed himself, the longer the periods the leg would be out of order. Just his luck to get in an on-ice altercation that tore his injury all over again and rendered him unable to walk for a month, with rehab and all that came with it. He’d begged to be kept on. Even with an unreliable leg, he’d been an asset. He’d begged to be allowed to stay until he was no longer of any use to the team. In the end it came down to insurances. The same way a player was banned from playing after three serious concussions, he was screwed. He’d been battling his leg for years, with periods of being fine in between. But the doctor’s final verdict was _final_. ‘Stop playing or you may end up not being able to walk. Don’t skate or play any physical sports. Take it easy.’ 

He had a good run. Now he’s done for. “My life is over,” he tells himself.

“It’s not. You’re only 38,” John says, coming back into the room. He sits down on the living room table, opposite Tom’s head, and holds out a glass of water and three painkillers. “Here. Take these.”

Tom obediently pushes himself up, grimacing as he’s dumb enough to put weight on his wrist for a second. He’s grateful that John decided to bring three, instead of one. It’ll get him fuzzy headed, sure, even when he’s in this much pain. But it will make the pain fade into next to nothing. One would not have done the job in this state. He swallows the pills and drains the glass, hands it back and falls back down on the couch.

“Here. Let me take a look at that wrist,” John commands and Tom obediently holds it out. He winces when John touches it. “Can you bend it? Move your fingers?” Tom tries, moves his fingers and rolls the wrist without problems albeit with agony. “I’ll go get ice for it. Better put a supporting bandage on it too. First aid kit’s in the kitchen, right? Hold on…” 

John leaves again, taking the empty glass with him. When he comes back Tom puts up with his silent, serious care. He lets him hold ice to the wrist and to dress it with a supporting bandage. He puts up with the fussing right up until John wants to check Tom over thoroughly. “If you want to take my clothes off you’re going to have to give me more than three painkillers,” Tom says half annoyed, half panicked. The painkillers has started doing their work, and with the pain fading it would just be his luck to get a boner if John undressed him and started feeling up his leg. Especially if his hands went on the inside of his thighs. Sensitive areas. He doesn’t trust himself right now.

John chuckles and sits back on the living room table. “Oh, so _now_ you’re shy all the sudden?” he says with an amused smirk.

“Got to buy me dinner first,” Tom responds and wiggles his eyebrows. 

John gives him a closelipped smile that doesn't reach the eyes, instead they show worry. “I still think we should go to a hospital.”

“No. I already know what they're going to say. There’s not much to do. It’s just my old injury acting up. You know how it goes. The body goes ‘Oh, you’re having fun? Enjoying life, are we? Well now, we can't have that, now can we?’” Tom jokes weakly and bends his leg, tries lifting it and moving his ankle. It aches dully but works fine. 

John puts a hand on the knee and gently pushes it down. “Rest it.”

“Dammit. I'm not an invalid,” Tom gruffs. 

“Well… technically…” John says with a skew smile. 

Tom laughs involuntarily. “Fine. I'll rest for a bit.” Pain is exhausting. When it loosens its grip tiredness washes over you in its wake. 

John looks down on his hands, fiddles with the ring on his finger. “Tom,” he says seriously. “Why haven't you taken your painkillers?”

“I haven't needed them.”

John is quiet for a beat. “I've seen you limp, making pained faces when you think we weren't looking…”

Tom almost tells him to go away again. He doesn’t want anyone to call him out on his bullshit. “I'm a wretched, useless man, marked for Hell,” is what comes out. Like it would answer the question.

John follows his train of thoughts though. “So you're punishing yourself for enjoying life again?” John says and looks up. 

Tom doesn’t answer. He hates John for not leaving it alone. Unlike Justin he's pushing subjects when Tom doesn’t want to talk about it. 

“Why do you think you'll be going to hell?” John asks when he catches on that no answer is forthcoming.

“I'm a bad man and you should stay away from me.”

“What have you done that makes you think that you're going to hell?” John needles patiently, repeating the question.

_I'm gay. I'm gay. I'm gay. I'm gay. I'm gay. I'm gay._

The sentence is screaming at him to utter it. Drop the bomb. Put the ball in motion.

“Did you kill someone?”

“No,” Tom answers and frowns at John. The very thought is ludicrous. 

“Molest children?”

“No! Jesus Christ. Shit, John. What kind of monster do you think I am?” Tom says and sits up, utterly horrified. 

John pushes him down again, calm, serious, unflappable. “I think you're one of the most good hearted, generous, kind, and respectful men I've ever have had the honour to get to know,” he says. “I also think you measure yourself against impossible standards, give up too much of yourself to benefit and serve others. It’s not good, Tommy. We're only human. We’re allowed to want things for ourselves. We don’t get sent to hell for making mistakes, and having feelings of our own. So I want to know what sin you _think_ you have committed, that is so big that when God holds up all the good things you've done and measure it against your sins, the sins will win out?”

_I'm gay. I'm gay. I'm gay. I'm gay. I'm gay. I'm gay._

Tom can’t say it. He can’t. He opens his mouth to answer and nothing comes out. John would leave in disgust. 

_That’s what I want,_ he reminds himself. But the words still won't come. There’s a huge lump of shame, guilt, and self disgust in the way, clogging up his throat. 

“Let's put it this way, if I had committed the same sin, would you be equally sure I'd be going to hell?”

_No! Are you crazy?_

The thought comes before he can remind himself that God doesn’t love sodomites, but even then he has trouble believing John would ever go to hell.

Apparently his facial expression says it all.

“I thought so,” John says and runs a hand through his hair. “Bro, I've been where you are. I know how devastating your situation is. But don't give up on us, okay? It gets better. I promise.”

“Doubtfully,” Tom answers, both about being where he is (John’s not gay) and about it getting better. “Just… just leave me alone.”

“I tell you what. You've been taking care of me and Juss. Why not let me repay the favour? I'll go home and give you some space, then you come over at 6 and I'll cook dinner for us. How does that sound?”

Tom can’t help himself. He grins. “So you _will_ buy me dinner? Then what? Some Netflix and _chill_ perhaps?”

John chuckles. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“No,” Tom agrees.

“Serves me right. Will you come over? Please?”

And how could Tom say no to those warm, brown, pleading eyes? He can’t, that's how.

* * *

He’s so nervous it's almost nauseating when he steps out of the cab, adjusts his backpack, and turns around to gather the wine and his foolish impulse from the seat before closing the door and waving goodbye to the cab driver. He almost drops what he bought in the bin by the fence. He’s being an idiot. He _knows_ that. But what can't come out as words can be shown. He doesn’t throw it away. 

He steels himself, walks up the path to the one storey house and rings the doorbell. He fidgets while he waits, moves the bottle of wine to his other hand, hides it behind his back, wonders if his hair and clothes look okay. He’s had crushes on straight guys before. Not many since his flames needs to be fed. He’s going to douse this one in gasoline and hope it blows up in his face. (But what if it doesn’t…?)

_Stop it, Tom. Stop these stupid ‘what ifs’. He’s straight. Even Justin could see that. What am I hoping for anyway?_

He hears the lock turn and straightens up. John opens, wearing an apron over his clothes. “Hey. Right on ti―“ John cuts off with a nonplussed expression when Tom holds out the bouquet he’d bought. He’d chosen each flower himself, picking the most beautiful. Thirteen yellow roses fading to dark pink at the tips of the petals, a couple of pale pink and dark pink peonies scattered in between because he’d felt just giving roses was too obvious.

“What? You never heard of _bro_ ses before?” Tom says, wanting to slap himself for being so utterly lame. John’s lips twitch, eyes conveying amusement amidst the confusion. He reaches out and almost hesitantly takes the bouquet from Tom’s hand. Tom smiles, heart beating a mile a minute. He raises the hand and bites on a nail. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry for before. I acted like a total asshole. I _do_ like having you around,” he corrects himself, trying to make up for being such a dolt. Broses. His kids would disown him for uttering that word. Hell, he’s disowning himself for speaking it. Jesus, what a loser he is!

“It’s cool. I get it.” John says, finally smiling. “But you didn’t have to buy me flowers. A bottle of wi―“

Tom pulls out the wine bottle from behind his back and offers it to John, cutting him off.

John bursts out laughing, eyes crinkling at the corners, making the flutters go crazy inside Tom. “Dammit, Tommy,” John says, grinning, shaking his head. Then Tom finds himself being pulled into a one-armed hug, John holding the flowers out of the way. John smells good, a light but masculine scent you have to be really close to catch.

John lets go, takes the bottle and looks at it. “This will go great with the food,” he says and looks up to meet Tom’s gaze. “Come on in. Dinner will be ready soon.” He turns to walk into the house, Tom steps inside, locks the door, and trails after him. “I think I’ve more or less only gotten flowers on my birthday,” John comments as he walks, looking at the flowers. “And those are usually the generic supermarket kinds. These are nice. It’s a nice gesture. Thanks.” He throws a look over his shoulder at Tom who smiles, feeling shy.

He hasn’t been to John’s home very often. When he’s come here it had usually been short visits spent in the hallway while waiting for John. It’s because John doesn’t like spending time at home with his wife. Now he looks around curiously. It’s a single storey house with three bedrooms and a home office. The hallway passes the home office and the guestroom, then leads into an open plan great room with a living room area, a dining area and a kitchen. The great room has these huge windows facing the garden along one side, and the kitchen part has a door to a covered porch. John has set the table in the dining area alongside the open kitchen with it’s granite workbenches and kitchen island. It’s all very clean cut and modern, leaning towards the minimalistic style, but softened by throw pillows, blankets, and some pieces of old wood wares, 19th century medicine jars and nautical objects. Now John goes to put the flowers in a vase and put them on the kitchen island. He uncorks the wine and pours them two glasses he takes from where they hang upside-down over the island. He also puts an ashtray between the glasses. “It’s okay to smoke indoors. We do on special occasions,” John says as Tom drops his backpack on the floor and sits on a barstool opposite John. John puts a pack of cigarettes and a lighter on the island too. “You can smoke mine. I've been mooching on you too much these last couple of days.”

“It's not a problem. It feels good sharing with people I care for,” Tom answers and reaches for the cigarettes. He doesn’t feel like smoking per se, he just wants something to do to calm down these ridiculous nerves. 

“I totally agree,” John says and turns around to pay attention to the stove. 

Tom looks around while lighting his cigarette. There’s a lot of unlit candles, tealights placed here and there all over the great room. There’s two candles on the island in pretty silver holders. On impulse Tom pulls them nearer and lights them.

John turns around and sees it, a look of unsurety crossing his face. “Uh… you didn’t light them sarcastically, did you?”

Tom raises his eyebrows and chortles, blowing out puffs of smoke. “How do you light candles sarcastically?” he asks in amusement. 

John scratches his head, looking a bit embarrassed. “I don’t know. Candlelight is a guilty pleasure of mine. My wife keeps bugging me about the fire hazards, but I…” John shrugs sheepishly. “It’s not very manly, now is it?”

“I like it,” Tom says and smiles, taking a drag on his cigarette. He can feel his face engaging its flirty muscles without asking him first. 

_Stop pounding, stupid heart! I've spent so much time with John. I have no reason to be this nervous._

It’s the wrong kind of nervous. It’s the anticipating kind of nervous, not the kind of nervous of preparing for doom.

John chuckles in relief. He comes to the island and takes the lighter, then goes to light more lights in the kitchen and dining area. He puts the lighter back and uses a remote to cut the lamplight except for above the stove. The atmosphere gets stupidly romantic. John takes his glass of wine and holds it up in a toast. “To friendship.” 

“To Netflix,” Tom jokes as he clinks his own glass together with John’s. 

John sniggers. “I'm going to end up misusing that phrase just for the sheer fun of seeing people's reactions,” he says and takes a sip of wine.

“Never underestimate the fun of trolling,” Tom agrees, drinks, and takes a drag on his cigarette. 

“Hey, so there's a thing I've been curious about,” John says, crossing his arms over the counter top and leaning forward. “You were a well paid player in a successful team. How did you manage your finances and living? I've heard that a player who earns a mil only gets about 200k after all the fees, taxes and living expenses.”

John works in finances, so his curiosity is understandable. You shouldn’t talk about people's income according to custom (although, talking about it would more easily put a spotlight on who’s underpaid), but Tom's salary has been listed on hockey sites for years, just like most well paid players. “That’s because they have no economic temperance. Most players last what? Four years? You have to be smart about your money. I haven't invested or anything like that, but I've still gotten a lot more than 200k per mil. Let’s see, first it's 20% to the escrow. Most of that we get back as long as the league is successful, which it's been as long as I've played in the ChHL. Then taxes, like everyone else has to pay. I think, all taxes included, it’s about 14%, but it’s counted _after_ the escrow, so the escrow is taxfree when returned. My agent takes 3% after the escrow too. My living costs have been minimal. I've shared cheap rental apartments with teammates or lived with my,” _boyfriend_ “girlfriend if I had one. I haven't bathed in luxury like some do. I played for the love of the game, not to get rich.”

“You lived with your girlfriends? What did you do when your family came to visit?”

“Put them up in a decent hotel and stayed there with them. When I was young Grace and the kids stayed with me and my flatmates a couple of times, but it didn't work out for any of us. So…” Tom shrugs and puts out his cigarette half smoked. 

“Kind of gutsy. Having steady girlfriends,” John says, turning his head to look at the roses. 

Tom shakes his head. “I'm not a fan of one night stands. I've had those too. More than I'm comfortable with. But I'm… I'm more interested in romance and love than just getting off. I want the mundane, the squabbling, the knowing each other inside out too. Sure, it comes with a risk of them turning on you afterwards. But then again, you can’t exactly trust a one night stand not to sing to the press either. But I _like_ being a couple.”

“But doesn’t it get boring once the infatuation fades? I remember when the glow faded with Cathy. The better we got to know each other, the less I liked her, and I’d say it was mutual. We clash in about every way imaginable. Interests, interior decor, everything. I used to feel bad about cheating on her, but I've asked for a divorce several times now and she refuses. So I'm thinking, she knows I cheat, and stays. It makes me feel less bad about it since she _could_ choose to let me go. You know what Justin said I should do? About her affair?” John’s lips pull up in an amused smirk. 

“No, what?”

“He said I should hire a private investigator, get a few compromising pictures taken, then use them for blackmail to get a divorce.”

Tom lets out a disbelieving little laugh. “The conniving little shit!” he says (not without fondness).

John grins. “Yeah, I know. But you know how his parents have tried to control him minutiously, so I understand why he would develop a scheming streak. But the more I think of it…” John looks away, eyes drawn back to the roses. “I want out. There must be more to life than dutiful misery.” He sips his wine with a faraway look.

“Let’s say you did it, wouldn’t she slap you right back with your own infidelity?” Tom muses.

“Not unless she already has proof. All I’d have to do is keep from creeping until the divorce is final. She could throw all the accusations she want, but without proof…” He looks back at Tom. “And it’s not like I’d want to leave her high and dry. She can keep the house, one of our cars, have half of our savings, keep all the furniture except some knick knacks I’ve collected over the years that she hates anyway. Gemma’s college education is already covered. I started saving up for that since I found out Cathy was pregnant. I’d walk away with far less than her, but I’d be a free man.”

“And if she isn’t having an affair?”

“She is. His name is Richard and he’s the CEO of a company in Portland.”

Tom sips his wine thoughtfully, then reaches out to take another cigarette. John takes one too, lights it and hands the lighter over. Tom hates how he thrills over that their hands touch when he takes it.

John takes a drag on the cig and holds out a hand palm up, indicating the great room. “Look at this house, Tom. It’s sterile.”

Tom turns his head and surveys the place more closely. “It’s not that bad. The throw pillows, glass fishing floats, the old wares, and the blankets adds a homey feeling to it,” he says when he turns back.

John smiles with a hint of gratefulness. “That’s all me. Cathy like things ‘perfect’. She even likes the garden meticulously groomed. Nothing wrong with that. But I like old cottages, hand blown glasses, old crafts, walls with brick laid bare, antique furniture. Tom, I hate to admit it, but I love to go antiquing. I prefer wilderness before gardens. I like small cozy rooms with big fireplaces. I want to live by the water, own a boat. I’ve had to fight tooth and nail for every piece of decor―or garbage, according to her―that you see that isn’t modern, sleek and streamlined. This just feels like a fancy cubicle to me.” He pinches his cig in his mouth and goes to stir one of the pots. Then takes a strainer from a cupboard, takes the other pot from the stove and pours its content (pasta) in it. He pours the pasta back in the pot and adds a dollop of butter to it. “Helping Justin get out of here has gotten me thinking. And last Sunday in church…” he takes the cig out of his mouth, turns around blowing out smoke, leans against the counter, crossing his ankles. “You know my tattoo and what it says. God lives in all of us. I believe that. None is beyond salvation. And during the sermon last Sunday a Shakespeare quote came to mind. ‘The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.’ There’s too much talk about placing blame, and it feels wrong in here.” He pats his heart. “Hanging out with you… your favourite bible quote is ‘Judge not, and ye shall not be judged: condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned: forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.’ I’ve thought about that a lot.”

Tom chuckles self-deprecatingly. “That would be the devil quoting Scripture for you.”

“It’s not. Tommy, listen to me, it’s _not_.” John walks back to the island counter and leans forward on it, locking his serious gaze with Tom’s. “You know how I know that?”

Tom shakes his head, takes another drag on his cigarette. This discussion makes him nervous. Like he wasn’t jittery enough already.

“Because every time you correct my behaviour, or when I say something that you call me out on, I stop to think for a beat, putting myself in the place of the person on the other end of my comment. And every time I can draw the conclusion that what I said was hurtful. And more often than not, it wasn’t my intention. It’s just how we’re raised. Your way feels good in here.” He pats his heart again. “Sure, I can’t change the way I think overnight. It’s like I used to say nigger back in the day. I’ve never _ever_ considered coloured people to be anything but my equals, but that’s how they were referred to in general, you remember?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Then the Washingtons, the Simmons, and the Wards moved in. They told me what the word means to _them_ , and frankly, I was abhorred that I’d been saying it. Despite that it took a while before the word stopped popping out if I didn’t stop to think. Ingrained habits from the childhood are hard to break. But I try.”

“If you want to be a good person, blackmail doesn’t seem to be the way to go.”

“I know, but Tom, we're so mean to each other. It’s ugly. It’s real ugly. And I think, doing this, it'd be like placing a cut on a festering boil to let the puss out. We were two horny teenagers who were infatuated with each other, who got married just so we could fuck, more or less. We might at the time have thought it could last forever, but those days are long gone. I think Cathy too, will be much happier afterwards. I don’t think the ‘til death do us part’ promise is the way to go when murder start sounding like a viable option in that equation.”

Tom’s eyebrows rise in disbelief.

John scowls and stands up straight. “Don’t look at me like that, Tommy. I haven’t _actually_ contemplated murder. _Jesus._ What I mean is, some days, thoughts come into my head like,” he takes a stressed drag on his cigarette, looking away from Tom with a troubled frown, blows out the smoke sharply downward and taps the ashes from his cig into the ashtray. “Like, ‘wouldn’t it be a relief if she slipped in the shower’, or ‘gee, this is one hell of a downpour, I hope she gets aquaplaning on the way home and crashes’. And that’s fucking horrible, Tommy. It makes me sick to my stomach that I even have these thoughts.” He gestures with his cigarette holding hand, waves it around haphazardly. “And I’m sure she thinks the same things about me. ‘Wouldn’t it be nice if John stepped in front of a bus’. I don’t like myself when I think these thoughts. Tom, I’m telling you, blackmailing her into a divorce is a lesser evil, more in line with what God would want.” He takes one last drag on the cigarette and squishes it in the ashtray. Once again, his eyes are drawn to the roses like the tongue is drawn to a cavity in a tooth.

Tom keeps quiet, listening attentively while smoking his cigarette. 

“Since you retired, and we started hanging out… having a real friend here, it’s changed me. It’s made it clear how bitter and dejected I’ve become, solely because I’ve started enjoying myself again. Even my colleagues at work have remarked on my change, telling me I’ve seemed happier, smiled more. Someone even asked if I’d met someone,” John says with an amused snort. He shakes his head and takes a sip of wine. “Heart of the matter is, I don’t want to be some middle aged, spiteful, used up man who hates a perfectly decent woman just because I’m forced to share my life with her when we’re so mismatched. We’re bringing out the worst of each other, just like you bring out the best of me,” he says, looking Tom in the eyes again.

Tom wishes John wouldn’t say things like that. He soaks up words like that like a sponge of hope he shouldn’t feel. They settle in his chest and makes him lighter, when they should burden him more.

“So what do you think I should do?” John asks and goes back to the stove, taking two plates from a cupboard.

“I wouldn’t normally endorse blackmail, but… you really think it’ll work?” Tom says, squashing his cigarette and sliding down from the barstool. He takes both their glasses and moves them to the dining table.

“I’m thinking it will. She doesn’t want to make a scene. A divorce would be a scandal, but you’d know it’d make a bigger scandal if I want to divorce her because she’s cheating. She’d be marked as a whore and a slut. I don’t _want_ her to go through that, but I want her to sign those damned papers. If she still doesn’t want to, then maybe it’s time to actually start making a huge scene and fight for my freedom,” John says, putting food on the plates while Tom moves the bottle of wine to the table.

“Which seat is yours?” Tom cuts in when John turns around.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not very particular about it,” John says with a smile and removes the apron, hanging it over a barstool by the island.

Tom sits down. “So, private investigator, huh?” he says to get the topic back on track. “Why not? I guess if it’s as bad as you say it is, there’s no reason to hold on.”

“Right? I think so. It’s extreme, but I think we’ll both be happier for it when it’s over.” John puts a plate in front of Tom and by his own seat opposite. He sits down. “I’m not as good at cooking as you, but this is my speciality. My mother’s recipe. Hope you’ll like it,” he says, looking at Tom with anticipation.

Tom looks down on his plate, it’s fresh pasta with a tomato based sauce, homemade meatballs, and a sprig of basil on top. He takes his fork and knife, cuts half of a meatball, catches some pasta and sauce on the fork and brings it to his mouth. John bites his lip, following his movements. If only he knew what he was doing to Tom by looking like that.

It tastes great. The pasta is perfect, the sauce rich in taste and the meatball practically melts on his tongue. “Mmm! This is delicious. Not good at cooking? False modesty is a sin, Johnny boy.”

John smiles widely, pride in his eyes. “Alright, so I’m a moderately good cook, but this and four other things I think I do very well. Glad you like it,” he answers and takes up his own utensils to start eating.

“So what are you planning to do after the divorce?” Tom asks between bites after they’ve sat in silence for a moment (can’t eat and talk too much when it tastes this good).

“I don’t know,” John answers, pausing to take a sip of wine and pour the both of them more. “I want to buy a boat. That’s a lifelong dream of mine. Cathy gets seasick just looking at water, so it hasn’t been an option. But I was thinking of getting a home near the water. Nothing big. Something cozy, you know? The company I work for has subsidiaries all over the country, so I don’t have to stick around, I could transfer. I was thinking, maybe Maine?”

Tom can’t help the icy knot suddenly forming in his belly. He reminds himself he’s trying to push John away, not _actually_ court him, but it isn’t working. The backbone reaction is panicking about losing John. 

Tom’s face must have said it all, because John hastens to add “But that’s all in the future. We’ll see how it goes.” He chuckles. “It’s a bit funny how the very person who makes me want to take the step and get away from this life, is the same person who makes me want to stick around too, huh? I was thinking, if I manage to push through on this divorce, first get myself a cheap apartment downtown. Then I’ll buy a boat and we can take weekend trips with it. You and me. Maybe bring the kids too if they’re interested.”

Tom knows this clusterfuck of a feeling coming over him. He’s been here before. He’s falling in love. There isn’t a single good thing about it. It’ll just mean more heartbreak. He wants to grab his phone and call Sam, just to talk with someone about the mess he’s getting himself into. His steadily growing feelings for John does nothing to diminish what he feels for Sam. It took meeting Sam to even begin to get over Stefan. It’ll take another equally Earth shattering love to begin to get over Sam. But this stupid crush on John has gotten steadily deeper the better they get to know each other, and he can pinpoint this moment as when it went into the deep end. He should just stop this foolish flirting and distance himself from John, but he’s not sure he _can_. It feels too natural. And here and now, drinking a good wine, eating good food, looking at each other in the warm light from candles while John tells him he wants to stick around because of him, planning a possible future where Tom’s included… it just does bad things to his vulnerable heart.

“I’m not into fishing,” Tom says, not knowing how to respond.

John chuckles and scratches the back of his neck. “Neither am I, to be honest. I find it a bit barbaric. I love eating fish, but killing them? I-I… It’s not for me. But do you like boating?”

“I do. I’d love to come with you.”

 _There goes the distancing myself,_ Tom thinks sarcastically as his body fizzles with happy bubbles when they smile at each other.

* * *

After they’ve finished eating Tom helps John do the dishes, despite John’s protests. He dries the dishes and puts things back in the cupboards, teasingly bumping John’s hips with his own when he has to reach the cupboard above the sink where John is doing the dishes. His brain is screaming _Abort mission! Abort mission!_ at him, but is derailed when John sniggering bumps him right back. 

They’ve finished the wine Tom brought so John opens a bottle of white wine and serves a platter with different cheeses and crackers.

“Could we put on some music?” Tom asks.

“Sure,” John says and grabs a remote. “What do you want to hear? I’ve got a 10 CD changer.” He pushes play and hands the remote to Tom. “I’ll go see which CD’s are currently loaded.”

Romantic piano music starts playing softly out of hidden speakers. “Richard Clayderman?” Tom asks. He knows the answer. He’s got this CD himself. ‘Richard Clayderman plays 100 songs for a perfect spring wedding’. He listens to it sometimes, thinking of the time he spent at the piano bar with Sam. 

“Yes,” John says, stopping his walk through the great room and looking back at Tom.

“Leave it on. I like it.” Like he needed another romantic element. “It’s unobtrusive,” he adds in his own defense and puts the remote on the table.

John smiles and comes back to sit down. “Works for me.”

They talk, flitting from topic to topic. Traversing light and hard subject with few bars held and high spirits. Tom fetches the bottles he brought from his backpack and puts them on the table when the white wine is empty. 

“Dammit, Tommy. I wanted to repay you some of your generosity. You shouldn’t have brought this,” John says with a laugh and looks at the labels. “This is a good wine. Haven’t had this since…”

John doesn’t reject his gifts, even if he chides. That’s good because it would have hurt if he refused them. What’s the point of being well off if you can’t share your bounty?

They end up sitting chairs turned parallel with the table and feet on a chair at the end of the table, one elbow rested on the table and the other holding their wine glass or a cigarette, making a triangle with their bodies. Tom’s phone rings. He takes it from his pocket and looks at the caller ID. It’s Cal. He doesn’t answer, feeling guilty. He hasn’t answered Cal’s calls since he gave in to Justin. He believes in breaking up face to face. Not that he and Cal is dating, but he _knows_ Cal wants more from him and deserves to be let down in a respectful manner. As long as Justin’s still around he can’t keep up hooking up with Cal, or going to the club for that matter. It just isn’t right. This folly with John…. God, he just can’t help himself. But everything else will have to stop. Besides that, Justin’s jealousy is doing things to his ego he doesn’t want to admit to himself.

“Who was that?” John asks, curiosity perked when Tom doesn’t answer the phone.

“A mistake,” Tom answers. 

“She won’t leave you alone, huh? Yeah, you have to be careful about who you give your number to.”

“I know, but it’s a repeat mistake. I told you, I'm not big on one night stands. The problem is that she wants more. Almost every relationship I’ve had has ended on the same note. ‘Leave your family or it’s over’. You had that problem?” Tom says and sips his wine. They’re both getting drunk, but it’s the slow kind of intoxication that creeps up on you, slow and warm, without you noticing.

John shakes his head with a rueful smile and looks down on the cigarette burning in his hand. “No. Not really. My affairs have usually been based on sex, possibly short lived infatuation. I’ve either hooked up with someone at a bar, then snuck out to do the walk of shame while they were still asleep, or had simple romances with other married women with the same wish for secrecy as me. Enough to perk one’s day up. Sending them flowers and taking them out once in awhile…” He takes a drag on the cigarette and look beyond Tom at the flowers on the kitchen island. “Say…” he blows out the smoke upwards with a slightly troubled expression. “You didn’t by any chance choose flowers by their meaning, did you?” He seems very hesitant to ask.

Tom turns his head to look at the flowers. He’d _wanted_ to buy red roses, but hadn’t dared. He’d figured going with roses was bold enough. He’d heard that 12 roses meant ‘Be mine’. He’d picked 12 initially, but in the end chickened out on that too. “They mean something? I don’t know, I just picked the prettiest flowers they had that weren’t red.”

John lets out a little chuckle that sounds relieved. “Heh. I didn’t think you had.” John’s mood perks up. “Peonies, the pale ones, stand for shame so they go very well in an ‘I’m sorry’-bouquet. I’ve used them myself at times. And yellow roses stand for friendship.”

Except the roses Tom had picked aren’t wholly yellow. However, Tom is relieved enough that he doesn’t ask for a more thorough interpretation.

“You picked them out yourself?” John asks.

Tom chuckles and bites a nail, grinning. “I did. Each and everyone. Apparently I’m a fussy buyer. By the end the florist was giving me a show of teeth rather than a smile. There’s only so many times you can change your mind or find fault with a flower before they want to stab you.”

John laughs and the conversation moves on. When their feet touch on the chair John doesn’t pull away and Tom is acutely aware of the small point of contact.

When the painkillers start wearing off, the pain comes back as a dull ache. Drowning yourself in copious amounts of hard liquor would deaden the pain, but this slow, gradual intoxication of wine isn’t doing the job. Keeping the leg still as much as possible is doing it a world of good though. Tom tries to hide the ache, but John is perceptive. 

“You brought your painkillers?” John asks suddenly.

“In my bag. That obvious, huh?”

John shakes his head and gets up. “Not obvious, but I’d like to think I know you well by now, and…” he gestures at his face, “...you get strained.” He puts a hand on Tom’s leg when he rounds the table. “Stay put. I’ll get em for you.” The handprint burns on Tom’s skin long after the hand is removed.

“One will do for now. It’s not that bad.”

“As long as you rest the leg. You had over taxed it, you said?” John digs up the packet of pills, pops one from the blister strip and throws the pack on the island. He goes to fetch a bottle of water from the fridge and brings the pill and water to Tom. When he takes it, their hands touch. Tom hates how it makes his pulse jump because it’s such a good feeling.

“Yeah. It’s my own fault. Too much rough housing lately.” He swallows the pill and downs half the bottle, putting it on the table afterwards.

“There’s no way I convince you to go to the hospital? I don’t mean tonight,” John says when he sits down and puts his feet up on the chair.

“You know what,” Tom hears himself say, “the next time something like that happens, if I’m sober, and you’re there, I promise you that I’ll let you take me to the hospital. But I have to be sober, because otherwise they’ll stop prescribing me painkillers and they’re what keeps me afloat most days.”

John nods. “That’s good enough for me. I don’t condone of you drinking and taking them at the same time. I don’t. But I get it, despite the risk. I’ve been there. Sure, I was only at college level, and I was younger, but…” John takes a sip of his wine, swallows, takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “To me, life was over,” he says, getting a faraway look, face angled at the window overlooking the now withered garden. At this time of night you can’t see that the sun has burnt it to lifelessness. Moonlight paints it silver and blue, contrasting with the warm yellow candle light indoors. “There wasn’t anything I wanted to do but play. I didn’t care if I ended up in the majors or got stuck in a mickey mouse league, as long as I got to play. There wasn’t anything I didn’t love about it.”

Everything John says reverberates is Tom. That’s how he feels. Felt. No, feels. It feels like somebody had torn more than half of his identity and capacity for joy right out of him.

“And then my injury happened. Attritional wear on the ligaments and joints. I was fucked. Truly fucked,” John continues. “For a long while I wasn’t even allowed to work out. Today I can, but you can still see on x rays that my injury never fully healed. What was worn down, is still not back to even 75%. I avoid throwing motions and have built different kinds of muscles to strengthen my arm. But should I start playing again, just for fun, it wouldn’t take long until…” John takes another deep breath and reaches for his cigarettes. They’re both smoking a whole lot more than they should but are beyond caring. The kitchen fan makes a steady hum below the soft piano music. “Anyway. I guess my teammates did their best to perk me up, but I couldn’t be around them. It was too depressing. I was rash, angry, heartbroken, and self-destructive. Didn’t care about anyone or anything, especially not my grades. Nearly got kicked out of college altogether.”

“What happened?”

“A bridge, a stupid impulse, and a chance meeting happened. I was walking home from God knows where one night. Crossed a bridge and stopped in the middle to look down. I had never thought about suicide before that, but the impulse came. If my life is over, it might as well _be_ over. You get what I mean?”

Tom nods.

“So I climbed to the outside of the bridge, held myself out as far as I could so I’d fall with my head first. I was just about to let go when somebody grabbed my arm and pulled me back.” The memory makes John smile. “It was one of the campus rastafari stoners. So black you could hardly make out his facial features in the darkness. Dreadlocks and a red, yellow and green striped shirt with a ganja leaf printed on it. I still remember it clear as day. His eyelids were heavy, the white of his eyes red, he had a goatee and baggy red pants. Too me he looked like a walking circus. He said,” John fakes a rastafari accent, “‘That’s not de answer, man! Chill out. Imma help you, man,’ and proceeded to talk me into following him while offering me a hit on his blunt. That’s how I found myself swept up in the stoner crowd. Both the real rastafari crew, the surfers, and the hippies. I leaned quite heavily on drugs back then, but paradoxically enough, I started giving my all to studies again.”

“Just weed?”

John shakes his head and takes a drag on the cigarette he just lit. “No. Mostly weed. But I did E, LSD, cocaine, took painkillers and benzo. Anything I could get my hands on at the time. I’m not proud of it, but it got me through the worst period. Sometimes when I think back on it, it scares me to think about the risks I took, and how close I got to become addicted. Many of those I hung out with back then fell down, instead of climbing upward…” John lets out a heavy sigh filled with smoke. “But in the end, I’m pretty sure I would have taken that jump if I hadn’t had artificial help to feel alive. That’s why I don’t berate you, or try to stop you from taking the same road.” He looks at Tom. “I’d urge you to caution, but it feels like, if I’d tell you to beware of an oncoming car, you’d willfully step out in front of it.”

Tom’s heart is pounding fast again. He smiles, shakes his head once, and bites a nail. “It depends,” he says through his teeth, gnawing on his nail. “Is it a small car or a SUV? How fast is it going?”

They both chuckle, but it’s tinged with sadness.

Tom sips his wine, moves his foot to get some body contact, however small. “I’ve had my injury for years…” he begins. And it starts pouring out of him. The full story. How terrified he’d been when it got worse, how relieved he’d been during the periods he didn’t notice it at all. They’ve talked about this before, but not this in depth, not this unfiltered by the demands of society about how a man should act or feel. He’s still skirting the truth about what may happen if he keeps over taxing the leg. He’s afraid that John would stop him from using his leg or horsing around if he knew that it may mean he’ll lose the ability to use the leg completely.

One confession leads to another. Things Tom never thought he’d end up talking about. His parents and their behaviour. John’s parents have always supported John, through his rebellious phase, through his depression and subsequent drug abuse. Losing them had taken John hard, but up until their death, they’d been there for him, he tells Tom. Very unlike Tom’s. “...and they dirty up _everything_ ,” Tom says. He’s definitely drunk now, warm and fuzzy in both mind and body. “I’m a physical person, you know that, right?”

John grins. “It hasn’t passed me by, no. I like that about you.”

“Right. Right. I believe in showing my affection for people I love. Nothing wrong with a hug or a kiss on the cheek or whatever. Shit, many people do it. It’s just here, in this community it’s seen as something bad. And my parents… with one shitty comment, they managed to dirty up the purest love I have inside of me. The only love that is completely untainted. My children.”

“What’d ‘ey say?” John says, a bit slurred.

“Jessi came and sat in my lap like she always do, and they said that she shouldn’t because she was too old, and people might get the wrong idea―“

John coughs out smoke and stares at Tom. “Holy Hell! It’d never even cross my mind!”

“No shit. Me neither. Until they said it. Jessi threw a fit of course. Gave them a speech about it. But ever since, I can’t hug my kids without getting a lump of ice in my belly, wondering what people might think.” Just thinking about it makes him want to cry. 

“Jesus Christ! I’m telling you, Tommy. You did right by slamming the door on your parents. I don’t like to talk shit about people, but they’ve done you no favours.”

“They did the best they could…” Tom says. He’s not sure why he’s defending them.

“No. No they fucking din’t!” John removes his feet from the chair and turns to face Tom directly, pointing at him with the hand holding the cigarette. “I’m telling you, Tommy. Look at your kids. They’re great kids. Got heart inna right place,” he says and pats his heart. “They’re confident an strong. Shit, just look at Noah. It takes balls to tell your grandparens that they need to treat Jussin with respect or ‘ey’re no longer welcome as an important part of your life. But Noah fuckin did it. An’ you know it’s right. You know it. An’ _how_ did you raise em? _Opposite_ how you were raised. Am I rite?”

Tom nods and looks at his lap, twirling his glass of wine.

“And look at Juss. He’s been raised as strict an controllin as you, right? I heard his pa quote the bible, dunno where from, but e said ‘Whoever spares the rod hates his son, but he who loves him is diligent to discipline him.’ _That’s_ how Juss has been raised.”

“Oh, Jesus. Poor baby,” Tom says, heart clenching for Justin. 

John nods. “Mhm. Where’s ‘at from anyway?”

“The proverbs 13:24. Even my parents didn’t discipline physically very often.”

“Point is. Point is,” John says, pointing at Tom and taking a drag of his cigarette. “I’ve never met a kid… sorry. Young man. So eager to please for the tiniest bit of respect and dignity. He works so hard when the only reward offered to him is be treated like a normal human being. ‘M telling you, all that rebelliousness has been beaten _into_ him, not the other way around. Ts sad, that’s what it is. You ever disciplined your kids that way?”

“Nu-uh. Never. You don’t hurt the ones you love―“

“Xacly!” John cuts in and slaps the table with his palm.

“―I rarely even raise my voice to them in anger. Anytime I’ve done so it’s felt like a huge loss on my behalf. God know’s there’s been times they’ve driven me mad enough to want to give them a smack. But I haven’t. Neither has Grace. It’d ruin the trust between us.”

“Xacly! See. I din’t understan how lucky I was until I tried my hand at raisin a child of my own. But my parens helped, and I’ve tried doing what they would’ve done. Prolly would have gone better if me and my missus din’t fight all the time.” John runs a hand through his hair and squishes the cigarette in the ashtray. He leans heavily over the table and grabs Tom’s hand. “M tellin you, Tommy. We got kids to ensure we’d live in an eternal guilt trip.”

Tom throws his head back laughing, not even thinking about that he interlaces their fingers together until he turns his head to grin at John, who’s grinning right back. It hits him that they’re holding hands. They’re _holding hands_. “Amen to that,” Tom says, heart jackhammering.

John gives his their hands a little squeeze and frees himself, taking his glass hand holding it up for a toast. “Here’s to forever second guessin ourselves.”

“To eternal guilt,” Tom agrees and clinks their glasses together. However briefly their hands had been interlaced, it still has Tom wanting to smile so hard his cheeks would hurt.

“S funny bout Juss,” John says after draining his glass. He reaches for the bottle to refill for the both of them.

“What is?” Tom asks and drains his glass, holding it out to be refilled.

“With who I hung out in college, right? I shoulda known better. The guy who talked me off the bridge, _Mojo_ , he looked like a circus to me, sure. Sure he did. But I got to know ‘im better, an ‘e was cool. They all were. But ‘en I moved back ‘ere to take care of my wife an kid. An’ openminedness got sucked outta me. I din’t even register it ‘appening until you came back. I shoulda known better than to judge Juss at face value. I know, right? With my college experiences, I know it isn’t bout how you look. I just got eaten by the doctrine. Gotta be careful, Tommy boy. I see it. I see it startin to ‘appen to you too. S no good. I need you to stay you.” John chuckles. “Maybe we should _both_ move to Maine, eh?”

Tom thinks that the pain is going to be horrendous when this band aid is ripped. He doesn’t need more food for his vain fantasies and he certainly doesn’t need this warm flame of misguided hope in his chest, no matter how much it warms his soul.

* * *

The clock is 5 AM when tiredness and intoxication wins out. Tom gets up and almost falls, giggling stupidly. “Oh shit. I’m drunker than I though.”

John comes around the table on fairly unstable legs, grabs Tom’s arm and hoists it over his shoulder, slipping his other arm around Tom’s waist. “Ere. Lemme elp.”

Together they stumble towards the guestroom, giggling at every misstep along the way.

“S a shame,” John says.

“What?”

They’re just outside the guestroom, in the narrow hallway. “That one can’t ‘ave this _an_ sex,” John says.

Tom nearly loses it. He swings around to face John without removing his arm around him. Unfortunately they’re both so unstable it makes them stumble, Tom with his back against the wall and John bouncing into his chest in a pleasant reminiscent of getting checked into a board. “You’re an idiot,” Tom says, grinning, leaning their foreheads together.

“ _Imma_ idiot, am I? You can’t even keep uprite!” John laughs.

They may be drunk but Tom doesn’t get how John can miss the homoerotic undertones going on right now because they’re hugging (okay, so it’s one-armed), pressed against each other (a bit unstable and haphazardly, by all means) and leaning their heads together. They’re one breath away from kissing _’If only…’_ “You _can_ have both,” Tom informs him, grinning like a maniac since it’s his number one defense when he’s vulnerable and scared shitless emotionally.

John puts his free hand on the wall behind them and pushes. If Tom hadn’t clung on, it would have made him push away, but now it just makes them lean away from the wall. John’s arm buckles and they fall back again, laughing. “Too bad you’re not a woman. ‘T woulda been perfect,” John slurs and leans his forehead against Tom’s shoulder, chortling.

Tom wishes he wouldn’t say things like that. It makes his insides go haywire. “You’re too picky.”

John lifts his head and looks at Tom.

And there it is. The tension.

It skyrockets with every drunken breath, coursin like acid in Tom’s veins, making his mouth dry.

It blasts through even John’s drunken haze. Tom sees it in how his smile fades and how he swallows nervously, looking into Tom’s eyes.

If Tom hadn’t made John a promise to only kiss him if he asked for it (stupid drunken promise, made when he’d pretended he was about to kiss John for the benefit of the two women looking), he would have taken the leap _right now_ and closed the gap between them, no matter what John’s reaction would be.

Honestly, right now, he has no idea _what_ John’s reaction would be. This wasn’t a date, but it sure as hell felt like one. A perfect one to boot. 

He wets his lips unconsciously readying them for a kiss he already knows isn’t forthcoming.

John’s eyes flick down to catch the movement. He blinks. For a beat there’s total stillness.

Then John pushes himself away from the wall, letting Tom go long enough to get himself untangled. “Jesus Christ, Tommy. We’ve ‘ad way too much to drink tonite. It ain’t rite. Imma tell you, it ain’t right,” he says, sounding a bit shaken. He pulls Tom off the wall and hitches his arm around Tom again, to help him the rest of the way, chuckling nervously as he tows Tom the last few couple of steps.

Tom can’t say anything. All he can think is that John thought about it. For that brief moment when John looked down on his lips, he’d made the mindleap of a kiss, and tried out the idea in his head. Sure, he’d recoiled, unsettled. But still. He’d felt the tension and made the leap. 

Tom doesn’t know if that’s good or bad, but for some reason it makes his heart sing.

He thinks about it long after John has wished him a good night and left him alone.

_What if…._

* * *

When Tom wakes up he’s got a text. He reads it on the lockscreen notification and goes from drowsy to wide awake in the span of a heartbeat.

`**Kid:** Just tell me where you are and I’ll come get you!`

He opens the text up, wondering why Sam had texted and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

`**Tom 06:12:** I can’t handle this anymore.  
I miss you. I wish you’d save me.`

`**- Kid 06:15:** Just tell me where you are and I’ll come get you!`

He has no recollection of sending a text to Sam. He didn’t think he was blackout drunk, he remembers yesterday just fine up until he was left alone in the guestroom.

“ _Fuck_.” (Because sometimes ‘Shit’ just doesn’t cut it.)

He checks his call history too just to be on the safe side, but it seems like that single text was the only one he’d sent. His fingers hover above the reply button. He berates himself. He’s got no right pushing himself back into Sam’s life that way. The kid’s got to live without having some washed out, done for, piece of trash come crying at his door every time emotions get too hard. Sam deserves to be left alone. He doesn’t answer the text.

It takes him a while to recuperate from the anxiety attack that causes.

When he finally emerges from the room and slinks into the bathroom, he can hear John whistling in the kitchen. It’s a good sign, though Tom’s still nervous about how John will act in the face of their almost kiss yesterday (this morning).

Tom emerges from the toilet, looking presentable again. His feet are soundless on the polished granite floor as he makes his way to the great room. John’s whistling stops just a beat before he turns the corner. He spots John by the kitchen island, eyes closed, with his nose against one of the roses, inhaling deeply. Tom smiles. “I should bring you flowers more often.”

John startles, jumping away from the flowers then laughing sheepishly. “Shut up. It’s nice. They’re nice. They smell good. Don’t make a big deal out of it, you sneaky bastard.”

Tom laughs. “If you want to hear me come, you need to get yourself creaky wooden floors.”

“Or put a bell on you. Your timing’s great. The coffee’s just got done.” John pours a cup for Tom and puts it by the seat Tom had yesterday by the kitchen island.

Tom walks over there and slides onto the barstool. By his place there are two painkillers, a bottle of water, and the newspaper in addition to the coffee. “Thanks,” he says and indicates the things in front of him. “And thanks for yesterday. It was next to perfect.”

“Yeah. It was, wasn’t it? We need to do this again sometime soon,” John agrees smiling. 

It’s another one of those polaroid moments.

‘ _What if…’_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so... I love the language of flowers okay? In another (still unpublished) Ducifer fic it plays a major role, but I'm going to go ahead and let it make an appearance in here too. John knows it, but Tom doesn't, and I couldn't get the meanings in without John calling Tom out on it. So I'm just going to tell you the message it conveyed to John. (Note though, that the language of flowers differs between different cultures, and can have different meanings.)
> 
> 13 roses - secret admirer (can also mean forever friends)  
> Peonies are associated with bashfulness and shame. (In later times they've come to stand for happy marriage too.) Pink peonies stand for romantic love, and very pale pink for shame, regret and embarrassment.  
> Yellow roses are either the colour of friendship or jealousy and treason. Yellow roses with pink edges symbolises friendship turning into love.
> 
> I've read through so many flower language sites and many, especially those run by flower stores, focuses on the most commercial meanings, those that sell. Personally I prefer older meanings based on old folklore. Either way, what John saw was shame/romantic love/secret admirer/friendship to love. But he could also see bashfulness/forever friends/friendship if he chose to.


	24. 2 Corinthians 12:14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom's family dynamics suddenly takes a different turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look. I had things neatly planned out. And as usual when I do, the boys do something else, changing the plot. The boys playday at the pool changed a whole lot, to be honest. It made a possibility for an actual happy ending, instead of a happy-ish one. Albeit, whichever way it goes, big sacrifices will be made.

## Summer 2014

The Croatoan bites the Rainsborough household.

That’s what they say nowadays. “They got bit by the Croatoan.” Tom’s the first to fall sick. Thanks to the painkillers he takes, he misses the first signs that would have warned him something is wrong. Normally a person feels their joints start to ache, then comes the headache―two symptoms that pass Tom straight by. He goes straight on to high fever without passing go. Even that passes him by as he spends two consecutive days in and by the pool in the blistering sun with Justin, Jessi, and her friends, John joining them in the evenings. At first Tom thinks it might be heat exhaustion, which is odd since he takes frequent dips to cool himself down, and dives for things thrown to the bottom of the pool in competition with the others. Apart for the obnoxious amounts of foul tasting water he swallows in the pool, he keeps himself well hydrated with bottled water. Yet by the second evening he starts feeling dizzy, weak and exhausted, sweating like a pig (a blistering sun will do that to you). He has no appetite. But then again, loss of appetite is a side effect of the anxiety that hounds him too, so he doesn’t consider it as an implication of something seriously amiss.

It’s not until Grace comes home, sees him, stops dead and says “Oh, baby, _no_ ,” mournfully and sympathetically, that it catches up to him. She walks up to him and puts a hand on his forehead. “Baby, you’re burning up. Come on, let’s get you to bed.” His confusion would have been a good indication of how high his fever is. She takes him by the hand and leads him up to the master bedroom, tells him to undress and get into bed. He _is_ exhausted, and she is soft and caring for once, so he doesn’t protest. She tells him she’ll be right back but he falls asleep before she returns.

When he wakes up he feels like dying and Noah’s sitting by the bed with a homemade string of prayer beads, praying and looking terrified. “Don’t worry, champ. God hates me too much to set me free,” Tom mumbles. All the symptoms that had been masked by the use of painkillers have made themselves known big time. His head is pounding, his joints ache horribly, and he feels feverish in the very worst kind of way. There’s a cold wet washcloth on his head and it feels _divine_. 

Noah looks up. “Dad!” He looks relieved. “Mom said you were going to be alright, but I’m not taking chances.” He holds up the prayer beads to indicate he means by praying. “You need to get to the toilet?”

Tom does, and feels so ashamed that he’s so weak that Noah needs to help him get there. A father should care for his children, not the other way around. On the way back Jessi sticks her head out of her room and breaks into a smile. “Dad! You're better!”

“Go back to bed, Jessi. Mom said that you should rest,” Noah chides. 

“I'm _fine_ ,” Jessi whines, gives Noah a moping look, but nevertheless withdraws, muttering about boredom. 

“She fell sick a couple of hours after you, but never got even half as bad. You've been out of it for days. Mom said you were going to be okay when the fever started going down, since you never got the bruises.”

“Bruises?”

“Yes. If you suddenly start getting bruises from the slightest touch, you're screwed, even if the fever breaks afterwards. You can get better and then,” Noah makes a popping sound with his mouth, “but that’s only if you get to the bruising stage _before_ the fever breaks,” Noah explains and helps Tom back into bed. “Wait here. I’m going to get you some food. We've only gotten fluids into you.”

Mentioning food has Tom feeling how hungry he is and when Noah returns with two sandwiches, a bowl of chunky soup, and a big bottle of water, Tom eats it all, even asking for seconds on the soup. Noah sits quietly in the chair beside the bed, fingering one bead at the time on the string. After a while he takes another string with multicoloured beads out of his pocket and repeats the process. At first Tom had thought it was some homemade version of a rosary, where each bead represents a certain prayer. And maybe it is, but not the way Tom thought at first. Because Noah’s skipping some colours and going back to other colours to do them again. 

“Would you care to tell me about it?” Tom asks and gestures towards the prayer beads with his head. He’s feeling better now after he's eaten. Well enough to be curious. (But still miserable.)

“Oh. Um. Yeah, sure.” Noah pulls up several beaded strings from his pocket and puts them on the bed between them. He holds up the string Tom first saw him holding, so Tom can see. “Each bead represents either a person or a specific prayer for a person,” he explains. “I've given some persons several beads because… like this one,” he indicates a lime green bead, “It’s a prayer for you to get well. And this one,” he shows a white bead, “is for you to find happiness again. The white one next to it is for mom to find happiness. Jessi is mad at me for using two separate beads for you, but I want you to be happy, whether it's together or apart. This one’s for John getting well― “

“John got sick too?”

“Yeah. He got bitten the day after you. But his fever broke faster, so mom says he'll be alright. This one,” he points at a pink bead, “is for nana and gramps, that they'll find love and acceptance in their hearts, so I… so I don't have to cut them off forever―“

“Would you?”

Noah looks down on his lap, holding the string in his hand and rubbing the pink bead. He nods dejectedly and swallows. “Yes,” he says, voice strong and assertive in contrast to his posture. “Sometimes you have to choose between what you believe and who you love. Just because they're family and I love them doesn’t mean they should have a free pass at hurting people. They hurt Justin and they hurt you. It'd make me a bad son and a bad friend if I didn't stand up for you two, when what they say is so wrong.”

“You don’t have to choose to forsake them on my behalf, you know that right?”

Noah looks up with a sad smile. “And I will not be a burden, for I seek not what is yours but you. For children are not obligated to save up for their parents, but parents for their children,” he says, reciting the 2 Corinthians 12:14. “I know, dad. And that it, isn't it? You and Justin don't make me choose, but they do. And that’s not right. Especially since Justin’s never wronged them in any way. He’s never said a bad word about them.”

Tom smiles at him. “You’re a good boy, Noah. I'm proud of you.” He turns his attention to the prayer beads. “Who's the pretty aquamarine bead for?”

“It's for Justin. I'm praying that he'll do well today on his tryout.”

“That’s _today_? But if John’s sick, who’s taking him?”

“Mom is.”

“Can I?”

Noah hands the beads over and Tom rubs the aquamarine bead, sending his first prayer to God in a long time. God may not want his prayers, but Justin deserves all the support he can get. 

“What are the black and the grey beads for?”

The black and grey ones Tom had noted that Noah skipped over, yet he had one string with black beads alone. 

“Um. The grey ones are for people I don't like. Like this one’s for Paul. I pray that God will judge him fairly, since I can't. I'm sorry, but he’s such an asshole, and I just, _ugh_.”

Tom chuckles. “Maybe God will come to the same conclusion as you?”

It makes them both giggle.

“And the black ones?”

Noah sobers up. “This one’s for…” he says and touches each and every black bead, listing name after name. Most names are totally unknown to Tom, but then he starts recognising some of the names. He feels himself grow cold inside. They’re all names of dead people in their town. 

“Why did you skip the prayers for them?”

“I pray for the living. The others are already with God. Them… I just make sure someone will remember them. I don’t know. It’s like, the virus ended their life prematurely. I want them to live on… or at least their names. So I think of them once a day. Many of them were alone, didn’t have anyone to remember them. It’s sad. How many lonely people there are…” Noah sigh sadly. “But these,” he brings up the first string again, the one with the prayers for Jessi, Tom, Grace,Tom’s parents, and Justin. He fingers three black beads on the string. “This is Nina Cooper, this is Mathias Cooper, and this is Abraham Cooper… I pray for them every day.”

“Oh, Dear Lord!” Tom’s hand goes to cover his mouth, eyes getting moist in the corners, even if he manages to stave off actual tears. “David lost his little sister, grandfather _and_ father? Poor, poor boy.” David. Noah and Jessi’s friend from the poorer neighbourhood. He who works two jobs to keep up the appearance of being as well off as the rest of them. His little sister Nina is― _was_ ―barely a year old. That leaves him with just his mother and two siblings left.

“Yeah… they all went within a week of each other. The whole family got bit, but David, his mom, Cameron, and Dana came through, no worse for the wear. But…” 

Old man Abraham had been over 90 years old. The loss was no less tragic than little baby Nina or Mathias, but it sent a tendril of fear down Tom’s spine hearing about David’s dad. “But Mathias can’t have been more than seven years older than me. I thought the virus only took the old and weak?” 

“Apparently he had a heart condition. They thought he’d pull through. Then Nina died and he got a heart attack. David thinks it was the grief of losing a child, more than the virus itself that killed him. David didn’t get very sick at all, kind of like Jessi. Mom says the those who fall sick amongst the poor now get hit much harder than those who fell sick in the beginning. She thinks it’s because of malnourishment. What with people bunkering up and prices skyrocketing on basic goods that used to be cheap. Those who can’t afford buying in bulk when they find affordable groceries, or can’t drive far to buy in the bigger stores, they end up starving or eating really bad food. Many normally grow their own greens, but with the drought and watering ban...” 

“Is it this bad all over the country?” Tom hadn’t realised how bad it was. Here he is, feeling sorry for himself, and people around him are starving and dying. Honest to God, _dying_. He has no right feeling as miserable as he does, when people have it worse. That thought makes him feel even more miserable and pitiful, contrary to what it should.

Noah shakes his head. “No. Not at all. In Stanford and Palo Alto, where we went looking for apartments for Jessi, it was mostly life as usual. We’re in the worst area hit, because of the drought eradicating all local produce in Washington. That’s why I have the clear beads, praying for water. It’s hitting us like the plague, and outside the dry area it’s like any other nasty flu.”

“And David? How’s he doing?”

Noah takes a shuddering breath, steeling himself. “David’s very stoic about it. He’s taken his dad’s role as a family provider after it happened, and they all help making it work. I want to help them somehow, but they’re so proud… I don’t know how. They won’t accept donations or anything.”

“We’ll figure something out. We can’t have people dying because of malnourishment in town. Jesus.” Tom thinks for a minute. “Most people in this neighbourhood are as well off as we are. If you find out how many households are at risk because of low income, we can buy in bulk and distribute it amongst the poor. If all families get the same help I don’t think David would reject the help.”

“Yeah, I thought of that. But some of our neighbours whine about how it would deplete their resources too much since we don’t know for how long we’d need to keep the support up,” Noah says but sits up straighter, listening with interest.

“Maybe if we didn’t make it free, but non-profit? You said the problem escalated with the prices? If we buy from places where it’s still cheap, transport it here, and sell it for the same price we bought it, then we could use the income for the next import. That way, we’d only have to do one greater donation, and pay for transport.”

Noah has the ability to look solemn and excited at the same time. He does so now. He’s raring to go.

Tom continues. “And we need to look at what people _can_ give. If we keep asking people for money, they’ll get tired of it. But some may be able to contribute with other things, have trucks or contacts, be good at finding the lowest prices or most cost efficient transport routes. If we ask people to help with things that they’re specifically talented at, or that they are the only ones who _can_ do, they’ll be more eager to help. Just like in a team, where you have your leftwing, rightwing, center, your defensemen and your goalie. John works with economy. It may be a good start to start there.”

“Can I call him?”

Tom chuckles bemusedly at Noah’s eagerness. “If he’s sick, it’s a bit rude to call him now, isn’t it?”

“I know, I _know_. But I don’t think he got as sick as you, and…” Noah bites a nail and talks around the nail, very much in the same manner as Tom does, except he isn’t smiling for the cameras. “It’s just that… I’ve been so scared, dad. I still am. All the time. And I’ve felt so powerless. I need to do _something_.”

“Get me my phone.”

Noah jumps out of the chair and runs out of the room. He’s back almost immediately and hands Tom the phone with an anticipatory expression. Tom dials John’s number. He feels a bit selfish, because he wants to hear John’s voice and know if he’s okay. John picks up on the second ring. “Tommy boy?” His voice is hoarse.

“The one and only― “

“ _Fuck_ , it’s good to hear your voice! I was so worried. You went from okay to fucking delirious from fever in the space of a couple of hours.” John had still been there when Tom was ushered to bed, Tom remembers vaguely.

“Language,” he chides jokingly, feeling warmth and relief of his own flood him. “You okay?”

“Not well enough for physical activity, but well enough to be bored out of my mind. You?”

“Pitiful, but getting better according to Noah. Speaking of my son, he’s jumping up and down here, wanting to discuss a charity idea with you. You up for it, or should I tell him you're too tired?”

“No, it's alright. I'm so bored I considered working from home. To be honest, I would have, but I worried too much about you to be able to concentrate,” John confesses, causing butterflies. 

“Aww, honey. I love you too,” Tom says in a teasing voice, grinning. 

“Shut up. Don’t make it gay,” John answers, sounding flustered. 

Tom chuckles. “Alright. Hold on. Here comes Noah.” He hands the phone over, telling Noah he wants to talk to John when he’s done. Whatever John says makes Noah laugh as he leaves the room. 

Tom lies back feeling a multitude of emotions. He feels physically miserable, even if he’s better since he ate. He thinks of Noah’s prayers, of Justin’s tryout, of people dying of the virus, of poor David, whom he had urged to drink bottled water or soda last time they spoke, thinking nothing of more of the vast difference in their monetary situation than admiring the boy’s diligence and hard work. He wonders if David bounced back more easily just because of his youth, or if it played a part that he ate with his rich friends so often. Tom’s torn. When he thinks of the people in their community dying and starving, his heart bleeds. Then he guiltily circles back to how he has no right to suffer from his own situation when people around him has it worse. _That_ thought brings one of two thoughts. Either an overwhelming urge to go down to the den, get his gun, and just tap out. His family does well without him. But when he thinks about pulling the trigger, he thinks of John worrying about him, and about the sweet taste of Justin’s mouth. That makes him want to stick around for a bit longer. For as long as Justin’s around at least. Or until John indignantly outs him. 

The other thought that comes when he thinks about not being allowed to feel miserable when others have it worse, is _anger_. He tries not to get angry and fails. Part of him wants to give God the finger. Too much is demanded of him and he has no strength or will to live up to those demands. Why shouldn’t _his_ feelings be as much worth as everyone else's? He thinks about John telling him it's okay to want things, and Sam’s passionate speech about God making him the way he is, and how God doesn’t make mistakes, and therefore his love for other men can't be wrong. But then he thinks of his budding affair with Justin, going on under his wife’s nose. His wife who’s currently on her second trip to California to make sure the boy gets his chance at going to college, and _**bam**_ \- he’s slam dunked back into guilt and anxiety again.

When Noah comes back after talking to John for more than an hour, he’s looped himself through grief, guilt, anger, anxiety, and hopelessness uncountable times. It takes about five minutes of talking to John to make it fade away into warm bubbles. They talk for another hour, until John’s already sore throat gets even rougher, and Tom barely can keep his eyes open.

* * *

Grace comes back with good and bad news. Justin fell ill during the trip down, but hid it well. He excelled in the tryout, despite aching joints, headache, and fever. He’d gotten the acceptance letter and a partial scholarship. They’d been forced to stay in a hotel for a night for Justin to recuperate. But Justin didn’t get even a third as bad as Tom. Nevertheless, Grace drove him home to his parents to get well and give them the great news. 

They don’t hear from Justin for three days.

On the third day Justin comes over while Jessi and Noah are out. He manages to come on one of the rare occasions Grace and Tom are both in the kitchen, alone together. It’s the first day Tom’s feeling well enough to be up and about. Tom’s eating lunch by the table while Grace is making herself a sandwich by the counter. Two fairly amicable strangers sharing a home. Grace never gets her outbursts of anger anymore, nor does she treat him with icy silences, but they’re strangers nevertheless. Speaking politely but very little, and only rare glimmers of the old affection between them.

Justin silently shows up in the kitchen doorway and stops there, saying nothing. They both look up at him at the same time, greeting him with smiles. 

“Hi, Just―“ Grace begins, but stops herself, smile being traded for a concerned expression. Tom sees it too, the self-defensive mask of nonchalance and withdrawal Justin uses when he’s being met by judgement and trying to cope. “Justin, what’s wrong?” Grace asks, leaving her half made sandwiches on the counter to walk up Justin and cup his cheeks, worriedly looking into his eyes. Justin makes a start as if to answer, but closes his mouth again, swallowing. “Baby, what’s wrong?” Grace asks again and hugs him, rocking him softly just like she’d do with Jessi or Noah. 

Justin’s arms hang limp by his side at first. He meets Tom’s eyes over Grace’s shoulder, seeing the same concerned care in Tom's face. Apparently, that's all it takes for the mask to shatter. Justin’s lip trembles and his eyes go vulnerable and heartbroken. Then a sniffle breaks the surface and Justin hugs Grace back, hiding his face in her shoulder, shoulders shaking. 

Once he starts crying it's like opening a floodgate. He’s bawling like his whole world is ending. Tom finds himself having gone over there to stroke Justin’s back soothingly while Grace rocks the boy, murmuring reassurances. The both of them are working themselves up to horrid worry about what may have happened to get Justin to this state of utter heartbreak. When the racking sobs finally starts abating Justin lets himself be led to the table and seated. Tom gets him a kitchen roll to blow his nose and Grace sits down beside him cajoling what happened out of him. 

“I-I’m n-not going t-to college,” Justin sniffles. “T-t-t-hey said, t-that I have to,” he pauses to blow his nose and dry his eyes. “I have to finish s-s-school the normal w-way. And if they’re going to pay f-for my education, I h-have to go in a school t-they choose for me. They said that getting bit by the Croatoan for the tryout was God’s way of showing he disapproved. T-that it’s t-time for me to s-straighten up, a-and s-s-stop looking like a freak show. T-t-then our argument escalated, and…” Justin hides his face in his hands and starts crying again.

Grace isn’t saying anything. She is focusing on controlling her breathing. Her face is getting redder by the minute and her eyes darken, nostrils flaring. Tom has seen this before. _He_ has never made her this mad, not even when she was the most pissed off at him about cheating. This reaction he’s only seen (rarely) when Noah or Jessi have been harmed or hurt.

Tom pulls Justin into a hug, rocking him and murmuring nonsense while the boy cries himself dry for the second time. This time he manages to get the last of his story out. “We argued… and they said that if I refused to follow their rules, I was no longer welcome in their house. They made me give them the keys back and threw me out. They didn’t let me get my things, just… threw me out.” Justin’s in a state of heartbroken shock about this. Apparently, he never considered that to be a possibility.

“Those… _people_ ,” Grace says in a clipped voice filled with barely contained anger. You can really hear how she stops herself from using obscenities. “They don’t _deserve_ you. Their behaviour is unacceptable, unethical, and utterly heartless. Not to mention foolish. Listen to me, Justin. From now on you live here. Your room is _your_ room, and we will go shop whatever you’ll need to make it feel like your home. They have the audacity to turn away their only son? Fine. You have a new family in us. A family who loves you and appreciate you. What you have done this summer, is a feat to be admired. We’re all _so very proud_ of you. And let me tell you, even if you’d lazed around by the pool like Jessi have done, I still would have been proud to call you my son. As for the utter… _crap_ , about you getting bitten by the Croatoan as some sort of punishment from God. Don’t even consider it to be remotely true! God helps those who help themselves. It’s a testament of your diligence, devotion, and talent, that you managed to swim that fast despite being sick. You earned that spot at the university, and you’re going to go there. Tom and I will pay for it. I _know_ you will not disappoint us.” Grace turns her head towards Tom. “Honey, get the family car,” she says and snaps her fingers, then turns back to look at Justin. “This is what’s going to happen now…”

Tom doesn’t even consider not obeying. When Grace is on a warpath she’s a force of nature all to herself. He doesn’t hear the rest of her speech. Once he’s gotten the family car and honked the horn Grace and Justin comes out. Grace is still talking. She gets in beside Tom and Justin gets into the seat behind him. Grace turns in her seat to keep talking to Justin after instructing Tom to drive home to Justin’s parents. “Our home is your home now Justin. You have the same rights and rules as the rest of us. You’re welcome to come and go as you please, and to invite friends over whenever you please. As for rules, they’re not going to be a problem for you, you do most of those already. No drugs, no drunk driving, clean your room, help with chores, if you listen to music at night, use headphones, be respectful to people. Everyone deserves respect until proven otherwise, not the other way around. If you’re going to come home late or sleep over at friends’ houses, call us and say so so we don’t have to worry. If you want something, ask for it. I can’t promise you’ll always get it, but if Jessi and Noah would get it, so will you…” she goes on, listing rules and rights. And she’s right about it being things Justin already does, with a few exceptions like calling if he isn’t going to sleep at home. Which up until today was natural as he didn’t actually live at their place.

They stop outside Justin’s parents house and she orders them out, striding towards the door with the two of them in tow. She rings the doorbell, and when Justin’s father opens, she strides right in, shouldering him out of the way. “Justin, get your things. Tom, help him,” she says over her shoulder and turns on Justin’s dad. “You, Sir, should be _ashamed_ of yourself. You don’t _deserve_ to call yourself Justin’s father…” she begins, voice under tight control and fury boiling under her skin. Justin slinks by with his head bowed, shoulders hunched, and Tom follows straightbacked and stern as his bodyguard.

“Grace! You can’t just barge―“ Justin’s dad starts to protest, starting to catch up with what’s happening. Grace doesn’t give him a chance.

“Be quiet. A child is not a piece of property you can do as you wish with. They are unique souls God created and entrusted us to guide and care for. You’ve failed miserably…” Grace voice fades when Justin closes the door to his room behind Tom. He looks shaken. “Holy shit. She’s reading him the riot act,” he says in a hushed voice, eyes wide.

“Grace may appear gentle and submissive to most people, but when anyone messes with her children, she turns into a lioness protecting her cubs,” Tom answers, serious faced.

“But I’m not her son.”

“Evidently, you are now. And I stand by everything she’s said this far. Though for obvious reasons I’d prefer if you didn’t call me dad.” He gives Justin a tight lipped smile. Justin lets out an amused snort, but he’s still got the gobsmacked what-the-hell’s-happening look on his face. “Hurry up and pack. I’d like to be out of here as soon as possible,” Tom says. He doubts Justin’s dad will get violent. But if this drags out, he might, and Tom would very much like to avoid a physical fight on his first day up and about.

“You and me both,” Justin mutters and takes out two bags from his closet. He quickly fills one with clothes while Tom presses his ear to the door, trying to hear if there’s any trouble brewing. Meanwhile, Justin goes through the room, lifting his mattress, opening his desk drawers and removing false bottoms, crawling under the bed, taking out small thing like CD’s, photos, notebooks, a jewellery box, and other knick knacks that goes into the second bag. All things that his parents probably has deemed unsuitable. He even procures a porn magazine Tom can’t help to comment.

“Magazine? Old school, huh?”

“They monitor my internet usage. Can I bring it?”

“Sure. Just don’t leave it out in the open,” he answers with a hint of humour.

Justin packs his swimming medals and his wallet. He removes the SIM card from his phone and leaves it on the nightstand. His room is as impersonal as the guestroom he’s occupying at the Rainsboroughs. The walls are bare except for a painting of Jesus sitting on a rock with a bunch of shepherd sitting on the rocky slope around him, talking. Tom likes it because of the expressions. First of all, Jesus, while recognizable, is not glowing or looking otherworldly in anyway, and the men around him look like they’re listening, but aren’t bespelled. It looks like a man presenting an idea to other men who may be open to it, but not enough to lose common sense. Tom’s surprised that Justin takes it down to take it with him. “All done.” The whole thing had been done in just a few minutes. 

Tom grabs one of the bags from Justin, puts a hand on his shoulder, opens the door and ushers him out, keeping his hand propertariary on Justin. Justin walks a bit straighter now, but he’s tense. Grace has finished her lecture and is facing off with Justin’s dad, head held high and fists on her hips. When Justin’s dad sees Justin his face goes from sullen and defensive to enraged. “You ungrateful little shit! You put that back! I bought it for you, I own it! You―“

Tom cuts him off, citing Luke 6:34. “And if you lend to those from whom you expect repayment, what credit is that to you? Even sinners lend to sinners, expecting to be repaid in full.” He places himself between Justin’s dad and Justin when the boy passes, creating a wall along with Grace. 

He gets a glare then Justin’s dad focuses on Justin again. “Come back here, young man! I forbid you to leave this house. You walk out of here now, you’re dead to me, you hear?”

Justin throws one blank look at his father over his shoulder, then he's out of the door. “It's too late,” Tom says. “He’s legally an adult and he can do as he please. You forsook him. This is your failure, not his. If there’s one thing a child has the right to know is that their parents love and support them at all times.”

“You wouldn’t be so quick to embrace him if you knew why we brought him here. He’s got the Devil in him. All we have done is for his own good!”

Tom thinks with mournful humour, that the reason Justin was brought here is what led to Tom ‘ _embracing_ ’ him to begin with. (Albeit his care for the boy isn’t solely founded in lust.)

“I don’t care what sins he has committed,” Grace says. “The bible states that any sin not leading to death can be forgiven, and any sinner redeemed. Unless you learn to love with your hearts and not your heads, you stay out of his life. Good bye, Sir.” With that she takes the bag from Tom and strides out.

Justin’s dad looks at Tom. “What kind of man lets the _woman_ do the talking in his stead?” he sneers.

“One who knows wisdom no matter what mouth it comes from,” he answers coldly, turns to walk out the door, closing it behind himself. 

Grace and Justin are waiting in the car. Justin is clutching the bag with his personal collection of bibelots to his chest with wide eyes. He looks so young and vulnerable in this moment it breaks Tom’s heart. 

They're all quite until the house is out of sight. Then Grace’s temper flares. “ _Gah!_ What _horrible human beings!_ They who seem perfectly normal and sensible in church. And to think I used to be good friends with your mom in school! _How_ can a parent act like that? _How??_ ”

“Grace…” Tom says softly with a look in the rear view mirror. 

The gentleness of his voice stops her rant like shouting at her wouldn’t have. She catches Tom's look in the mirror and slaps a hand over her mouth to cut herself off, then she turns in her seat to look at Justin who has curled in even more on himself, eyes wide and shaken, very much like a scared puppy. Grace features softens. She reached back and grabs Justin’s hand. “I apologise, Justin. How they treat you has made me so angry for a long time. I understand that this is horrible and tough on you, and that you must be heartbroken. I'm sure you love your parents, and don’t want to hear me speak badly about them. It’s just that, Tom’s parents treated him much the same way, and they've never changed. I've seen them hurt Tom over and over and over, no matter how hard he tried to please them. And you know what a wonderful person he is. Now when I see you go through almost the same thing, and I just…” she squeezes his hand. “...It pains me to see people I love be hurt.”

“It okay, ma'am.” Justin is relaxing a bit, getting his emotions under control. A moment ago the difference between a 9 year old and a 19 year old was indistinguishable, but now the control of a young man is back in play. “It’s okay. Really,” Justin says again. But he lets her hold his hand all the way to the shopping center, not showing any inclination to wanting her to let go. 

At the shopping center Grace tells him that he’s to choose things for his room. When Justin says he doesn’t need anything really, and the room is fine as it is, Grace whirls on him and pokes him in the chest. “Young man! If I tell you to decorate your room to make it your own, then you're going to decorate it, so help me God!” she scolds impatiently with a fist on her hip. 

Justin is quiet for a beat, save for the _brrt_ -sound of his bellbar dragging back and forth against his teeth. His eyes narrows suspiciously before he answers. “Yes, ma'am. I can choose anything I like?”

“Anything,” Grace agrees. “Within certain limits,” she adds. 

“Uh- _huh_ ,” Justin says skeptically. “Alright,” he says, sounding less sceptical and more offhanded. 

They enter a store that sells furniture, bedding, home decor and other stuff for the home. While Tom and Grace takes a cart, Justin makes himself scarce. “You really think scolding the boy was a smart move right now?” Tom asks. 

“He needs to learn that he is part of this family now, and I'm going to treat him like he’s my own. Justin will need a safe space that's just his own. The guestrooms are decorated to be impersonal, and I want him to remodel it so it doesn't feel like he might get removed from it anytime we've got guests over. I want him to feel that this isn't temporary.”

“I'm not arguing any of that. I mean the tone of voice you used.”

Grace snorts. “You think he could have been persuaded any other way?”

“Probably not,” Tom concedes after a moment of considering.

They walk slowly into the store. Grace leaning her forearms on the handle of the shopping cart. ”...You don’t think he bolted, do you?” she asks hesitantly after a moment.

Tom draws breath to answer but in the same moment Justin reappears, coming out of a nearby aisle carrying a two foot Jesus figurine. He stops in front of Grace and holds it up. It’s smiling broadly and doing thumbs up―a caricaturistic Jesus, not unlike ‘Buddy Jesus’ from Dogma. “Can I have this?” Justin asks.

Grace makes a face as if she’s looking at something icky. “Yes, you can. Just put it in the cart.”

Justin looks at Grace for a beat, then at the ridiculous Jesus in his hands, then he makes a facial shrug and wanders off with the figurine. Tom and Grace shares a bemused look.

The next time Justin appears he’s carrying a dark blanket. He holds it up to display the motif on it. It says ‘Iron Maiden’, and the band’s monstrous mascot― _Eddie_ ―shows the middle finger. The tip of the middle finger is a burning candle. “How about this? Can I have this?”

Grace makes a face between suffering and exasperation when she sees it. “Yes.”

“Okay,” Justin answers and wanders off with the blanket, but stops down the aisle to look at it thoughtfully for a moment before disappearing again. He comes back soon thereafter with another blanket that he silently puts it in the cart, looking completely neutral in his face before scampering off again.

Grace holds up the blanket to look at it. It’s another one of Iron Maiden blanket with Eddie, but this one in a straitjacket and chains. Tom chuckles. “His taste certainly diverges from Jessi and Noah’s.”

Grace sighs and folds the blanket, putting it back in the cart. Her lips quirk up at the corners. “How many things do you think he’ll come show us just to test our limits?”

“A lot. And I retirate. Scolding him was a good thing.”

Grace smiles sheepishly. “I worried I made it worse, but it seems like all I did was wake the rebel in him.”

“I like that streak in him,” Tom confesses and puts an electric toothbrush in the cart. He hadn’t seen Justin pack any toiletries, and figures he’ll need it.

“Me too,” Grace agrees with a smile.

“Here he comes again,” Tom warns. Grace face turns serious when she turns around to spot Justin carrying a big frame. As he nears you can hear the bellbar playing its _brrt, brrt_ -tune inside his mouth. He's got his head tilted sideways, chin up, his hair falling down to almost cover one eye―looking every inch like an arrogant little punk. He stops in front of Grace and turns the frame around. It’s a picture of a very naked full breasted woman sitting on a rock in front of a waterfall. She’s glistening with water droplets, legs spread wide, arching her back, hands placed on the rock between her legs, just barely covering her pussy. Her mouth is open, head tilted back, and eyes closed. “Can I have this?” Justin asks.

“No.”

“Why not?” Justin challenges. Tom has trouble keeping his face neutral, fighting a grin.

“Because it’s disrespectful to the women in the family, as well as any female guests you might entertain. It paints women as solely objects of desire. I’m not having my daughter see things like that hanging on the walls in her home. I don’t want her thinking that’s her only value. You’re welcome to have pictures like that as long as you keep them hidden and look at them in private, but I’m not allowing it on the walls, nor paying for it,” Grace explains, voice stern, yet not angry.

Justin listens attentively to Grace little lecture. He’s not one for extreme facial expressions, but Tom can see hints of excitement in his face. “Alright,” Justin says before wandering off again with a little spring in his step.

Grace looks at Tom and giggles. “Oh my.”

Tom chuckles. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say he got happy for that ‘no’.”

“Maybe his parents never bothered to explain to him _why_ they said no, beyond ‘Because I said so!’” Grace suggests.

“Yes because _that_ always works well with kids,” Tom says dryly and shares another look with Grace. They look seriously at each other for a beat before they both snigger.

Justin comes with a black and white photo of a fit, naked man with his back turned. “It’s art,” Justin motivates. It’s not porn per se, but Tom could see himself jerk off to it it there wasn’t anything else available.

This picture makes Grace look troubled, she gives Tom a questioning look, asking for his opinion. “Tell you what, Juss. We'll buy you a full body mirror instead, so you can look at true art,” Tom says with a little smile.

Justin snorts in amusement and grins, cheeks colouring. He bends his head, looking at the floor. “Yeah, right,” he mutters, but he’s still grinning when he leaves.

Grace laughs and bumps Tom’s hip with her own. “Nice save,” she says. “You think he actually looks for things he wants, or just things he thinks we’ll say no to?”

“At this point, I don’t know,” Tom says, puts his arm around Grace's shoulders, gives a little squeeze and kisses her temple. This is one of those moments where they connected on the same level, just as they had back in the days. She just smiles at the brief show of affection.

Justin brings them a bed set and holds it up. It’s hot pink and lavender with big prints of Disney princesses on. “Can I have this?”

“Sure,” Grace says.

“No, but it’s Disney princesses, and I’m a guy,” Justin says and looks at Grace as if she didn’t understand the question.

Neither Grace nor Tom can keep from chuckling.

“So I see,” Grace replies. 

“And you see no problem with it?” Justin says with raised eyebrows.

“It will clash with your Eddie blanket, but if that’s you want to sleep in, it’s up to you,” Grace says, humour sparkling in her eyes.

“Huh.” Justin looks at the bedset with big thoughtful eyes. “Huh,” he says again and throws the bed set in the cart, looking up at Grace and Tom as if to see if they’re going to protest.

Tom grins at Justin, thoroughly entertained.

“Go pick out another bed set too,” Grace tells him, “so you have something to change with when these ones are in the laundry.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Justin chirps, eyes smiling even if he isn’t, then he scrambles off with excitement.

Grace laughs and looks down in the cart. “Dear me, his room must have looked like a total chaos of mixed styles.

“No it didn’t. It was more impersonal than our guestrooms.”

“You’re kidding?” Grace looks up with a frown. “Oh, don’t make me mad all over again. Have they tried to forbid every aspect of his personality?”

“Seems like it.”

Grace lets out a string of curses and unwell wishes for Justin’s parents, making Tom snigger. Justin comes back with another bed set, this one without any extreme prints, but in hot pink satin. When that’s allowed too he nearly skips away.

After getting towels he brings a rolled up poster. It’s in plastic so they can’t see what’s on it. He looks up to no good when he puts it in the cart and they can hear him chortling quietly to himself as he walks away.

“That was ominous,” Grace says. “I better go check what it is, so it isn’t anything inappropriate.” She looks at the number on the end of the poster and goes away, leaving Tom to add a razor to the cart. He sniffs at the after shaves until he finds the one Justin use to wear, adds it to the cart. He adds another one too, that he thinks will fit Justin just as well. He finds liquid for contact lenses, and adds it. Grace comes back giggling, looking just as impish as Justin had, and refuses to tell him what’s on the poster, but assures him it’s fit for hanging on the wall in their home. She adds a frame for the poster to the cart.

There are more items that are denied―a ‘Legalize Marijuana’ towel amongst other things―but most get a yes, even if not all go in the cart, proving that Justin indeed is testing limits. All three of them are a bit giggly when it’s time to pay. After that they go to an electronics store where Tom gets Justin a laptop, good headphones, a new phone charger, and a new SIM card for his phone, adding it to the family deal they have with their carrier.

When they come home Grace takes Justin to her office in the attic to register his new address with the DMV and any other services that needs it, effective as always. Tom carries all Justin’s stuff to his room before he goes up to the attic to see how they’re doing. He comes up in time to hear Justin ask Grace “You won’t be opening my mail, right?”

“Of course not!” Grace says, sounding offended at the very idea. “Aside for being unethical, it would be illegal.”

“You never opened Jessi or Noah’s mail?”

“Not without their permission, no.”

“Not even when they were kids?”

“If they’ve received anything suspicious, we’ve asked to be present when they open it. Jessi got one of those scam letters from someone claiming they were a Saudi-Arabian prince that needed help to move money around, when she was fourteen. That’s the only instance I can think of, when I’ve asked to be present.”

“Huh.”

“Your parents opened your mail, Juss?” Tom asks.

Both Justin and Grace startles, not having heard him come in.

Justin rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably, looking at his lap. “Yeah…”

Grace practically growls. _She_ grew up having her privacy respected by her parents.

“Mine used to do that too,” Tom tells Justin. “They never really stopped, until they were here visiting and opened a letter on the kitchen table that was addressed to both me and Grace, and she chewed their heads off.” Tom gives Grace an affectionate look. “My wife can be a lioness when she wants to. So don’t worry about it. It won’t happen here.”

“Thank you,” Justin seems to have a lot of conflicting feelings going on under the surface. Gratefulness, humbleness, happiness and sadness all at once.

“Don’t worry about it. You want help setting up your room?”

“That’d be nice. We done here?” Justin asks and looks at Grace.

“You boys go. I’ll fix the rest on the list.”

Tom fetches his toolbox so he can help Justin hang stuff on his walls. When he comes into the room, closing the door after himself, Justin has put the poster in the frame and Tom stops and groans, looking at it. “Why are they still selling those? I’m retired.” It’s a poster of himself. Of course it is. Why else would both Juss and Grace have looked so impish?

“Because they know hotness when they see it,” Justin answers with a lopsided smirk. 

Tom isn’t prepared on Justin being flirty after all that’s happened today. Like, for some reason, it should be obvious that they can’t go on with what they started because of all Grace have done for the boy. And yet, when Justin comes up to Tom and winds his arms around him, Tom doesn’t push him away. And when the boy kisses him, he kisses back, nipping lightly on the ring in Justin’s lower lip. But he does make a cursory try to abort. “We shouldn’t be doing this anymore, Grace…”

“She'll never find out,” Justin mumbles against his lips. 

“It’s a horrible way to repay her,” Tom tries. 

“I can move out, if that’s what it takes,” Justin counters between kisses. He certainly doesn’t have his priorities straight.

Tom should say no, that's not the answer. He should say that this _needs_ to stop either way. Instead he grabs Justin’s hair in his fist and growls “Don’t you _dare_ ,” into his mouth before deepening the kiss. He tells himself that the boy can't handle another big rejection right now, but he knows that's just an excuse to get to enjoy the last couple of weeks before the boy goes off to Cali. 

He does push Justin away then, seeing a glimpse of fear in Justin’s features when he does. “Alright, you irresistible little sea sprite. But not now. We've got to get your room in order.”

Justin looks relieved. Maybe the rejection theory/excuse isn’t so far off.

A little while later there's a knock on the door. Justin opens it to find Grace outside. “I was wondering if you want me to print out a couple of these?” she asks and hands him her phone. “I've got some photo frames lying around, both one of those with spaces for several photos, and a bunch of singles.”

“I didn’t know you'd taken these,” Justin says with a big smile, scrolling through the gallery on her phone. 

“Mhm, I take a lot of photos of my family. I prefer pictures of them when they're relaxed so I keep my phone on silent.”

“That’s cool. Hey, there’s no picture of you and I together,” Justin states and turns towards Tom. “Mr.Rainsborough? Could you take a picture of me and Grace?”

“Of course,” Tom answers and takes the phone. Silently he thinks that maybe Justin _does_ have a part devil in him. You'd never think he was making out with Tom mere moments ago. Not with the way he hugs Grace from behind, putting his chin on her shoulder, smiling for the camera. There’s no sign of remorse or guilt. For the next picture Justin holds his arm around her shoulder and she makes bunny ears behind his head with her fingers. 

He switches back to the gallery to see if the pictures turned out good. They did. He also looks at the other pictures Grace has taken. It’s not a great amount of recent pictures since she's away a lot, but the pictures she has taken warms his heart. The kids and Justin at the pool, laughing. Justin swimming laps. Tom helping the kids and Justin with their homework. Tom and Justin in the kitchen. Justin and Noah playing X box. Justin helping Jessi fix her hair in her room, just to mention a few. Justin isn’t in all pictures of course, but then again, none of them are. He’s in enough pictures for it to be obvious that he's carved a place for himself in the family. He returns the phone to Justin. “Any of those good enough?”

Justin and Grace looks at them. Justin grins at the pic where Grace does bunny ears behind him. “They're perfect. Thank you.” He chooses nine pictures of him and the family to go in the frame with several spaces. Then Grace leaves them again. 

Justin comes to steal another kiss. Tom chuckles against his lips, grabs his hips, spins him around, shoves him away and gives him a slap on the rear. “Get your room in order first, you little horndog.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Justin mutters. 

“Yeah, yeah, _what_?” Tom chastises. 

“Yes, Sir,” Justin answers with a smirk and a twinkle in his eyes. 

It’s a testament of how far from himself he has gotten, that he’s more excited to have Justin living here 24/7 than he’s feeling guilty towards Grace. Oh, the angst will come. He’s had a couple of horrid panic attacks already since their affair started, but now it will be worse, he’s sure. There’s already worms crawling in his belly.

They say God works in mysterious ways. But Tom’s pretty sure Satan’s pulling the strings on this one. They beat the Croatoan. If Jessi hadn’t fallen sick too, Tom would have been convinced God was punishing them for their shenanigans lately. But falling sick had actually been a positive thing for him, physically. His leg had gotten all the rest it needed not to bother him particularly much. He knows himself well enough to realise he’ll overtax it soon again with this development.

He dwells on this while he helps Justin unpack and decorate, wondering about his own behaviour. He’s acting in a way he finds repulsive in others. And maybe that’s it? He _knows_ he’s going to hell, and he’s angry at God for it. He’s going to hell for something he can’t help, which makes it hard to grasp why. So if he’s going to hell he might as well earn himself the spot for a reason he can grasp. Clearly, he’s reached the point of moral bankruptcy. It’s gross.

He wishes he could talk to someone about this, about everything. That makes him miss Sam. He remembers lying in bed with Sam, talking openly and honestly about things, holding few things back. He sneaks a look at Justin, who’s currently putting his new sheets on the duvet with a secret, inward smile. Tom just doesn’t have the same trust in Justin. Or maybe it’s himself he doesn’t trust with Juss. The boy is so hot it’s making him want the boy in an animalistic way. He can’t shake the feeling of using the boy, no matter how willingly Justin gives himself.

When Tom hangs the framed poster on the wall he’s bombarded with unwanted thoughts. First a memory of his poster hanging over Sam’s bed, then a memory of him hanging the first poster of himself on the wall with Grace hugging him from behind, beaming proudly. Then a daydreamy ‘If only…’ thought of hanging a poster of himself on a new wall, in a new house on the coast of Maine. Another set of strong arms wrapping around him from behind. John’s voice, laced with humour, teasing saying ‘ _Honey, humility is a virtue, you know that right?_ ’ just by his ear. The thought is bittersweet, and he allows himself to get lost in it for a moment, imagining what it would be like if only John was like him, and into him. He misses John. They’ve spoken on the phone daily since Tom came out of the worst of his fever, but they hadn’t actually _seen_ each other since both had been recuperating.

He’s so deep into his thoughts that he startles when Justin winds his arms around his waist from behind, in the same manner as daydream-John. Justin kisses his neck and Tom leans back into the hold. “Juss, don’t you feel guilty?” he asks, a bit troubled.

“She hit you,” Justin answers.

“I deserved it, and she hasn’t done so in a long while now,” Tom defends. He’s surprised at the answer. Now he remembers that day Grace and he had stomped into the kitchen to find Justin and the kids in there to witness and hear their argument. He remembers the overwhelming shame and guilt it had caused him. But it’s long forgotten in his world. He’d never thought _Justin_ would be holding a grudge. It gives him a bit of pause.

“Don’t worry about my conscience, Mr.Rainsborough. That’s my cross to bear.” He nuzzles Tom’s neck, inhaling deeply. Then he lets go and steps away, expression turning unsure. “Sir?”

Tom turns to face him, raising his eyebrows in question, prompting Justin to speak.

“Are you… are you really going to send me to college?”

“Of course.” 

“Then what’s all this about?” Justin asks, making a sweeping gesture towards the room. “If I’m leaving in a month?”

“It’s the Christian thing to do. And you’ll need a place to come home to, on holidays, or if everything turns to shit. This will be yours until you’ve finished your education and get your own place.” 

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to repay you…” Justin says, still looking unsure and concerned.

Tom smiles and hooks his hand in Justin’s waistline and tugs him flush. “Baby, you don’t have to repay us. That’s not how gifts work. I don’t have to cite Luke 6:34 to you too, do I? The only thing I can ask for is that you don’t squander your education. Study hard and we’ll consider it money well spent. Or focus on trying for a swimming career. I don’t care either way. Just do your best, my little son of Lotan, whichever road you choose.”

Justin melts into his embrace. “Lotan?”

“A sea monster in Canaanite mythology,” Tom clarifies.

Justin chuckles. “For someone who professes to believe in only one God, you sure make a lot of references to other religions.”

“True. As long as it gets my point across.” He kisses Justin’s forehead, allowing the boy a moment of feeling warmth and valued in the face of his parents rejection.

A while later the room is transformed. The three of them stand silently looking around. The walls are crammed. Full body mirror, photos, band posters, a cross, the Jesus painting, pictures cut out of magazines that came from Justin’s secret collection, postcards. It’s a mess. The bed says it all with its Disney princesses covered halfway by the dark Iron Maiden blanket lying over the duvet. Tom shakes his head. “Juss. You’ve got a lot of talents, but I tell you, interior design isn’t one of them.”

Justin grins broadly. “I love it!”

“That’s all that matters,” Grace says with an amused smile and shares a warm look with Tom behind his back.

“You don’t think Jessi and Noah will have a problem with this?” Justin asks uncertainly.

He needed have worried. When the kids come home to get the news that Justin’s moved in for real, Noah fistpumps and Jessi does a happy dance. Their reaction to finding out _why_ is vastly different. Jessi turns into a Fury, wanting to kick Justin’s parents’ asses, and telling Juss he doesn’t need them, that he belongs to this family now (Just like Grace, she doesn’t leave much of a choice in the matter.) Noah instead goes into mourning in Justin’s stead. By the look on Noah’s face, you’d think it was _he_ who just got kicked out by his parents. He assures Justin that he’s very welcome in the family, but apologizes for getting so happy about him moving in, when the circumstances are what they are. Justin shrugs it off with a smirk. But Tom honestly can’t tell what Justin thinks about the whole thing. 

The kids’ reactions to Justin’s room are also different, and not what Tom expects. Jessi is the one to protest loudly about the princess sheets. “Oh my God! Why on Earth do you have these?” she asks in bewilderment, sitting on the bed and looking down on the sheets.

“I like ‘em,” Justin says, crossing his arms in front of himself and tilting his chin up defiantly.

“ _Really_?” Jessi says skeptically. “Come _on_. What guy likes Disney princesses?”

“Disney princes, for one,” Noah snaps in Justin’s defense, surprising Tom, who’s standing in the doorway, watching. He’d have thought Noah would be the one to oppose the sheets, and Jessi to be the defender.

“I happen to like beautiful, strong women. What about it?” Justin challenges.

Jessi rolls her eyes and falls back to lie on the bed. “I give up. Good luck getting laid with _these_ sheets,” she says, then slaps a hand over her mouth and sits up straight, staring at the doorway where Tom is leaning. 

Tom chuckles. “That’s my cue to leave the perimeter,” he says. “This is clearly heading into a conversation topic not suitable for dads.”

The kids laugh and he leaves them to themselves, adding ‘fucking Justin on those sheets’ to his internal things-to-do-before-I-die list. He pops a painkiller in the kitchen, pours himself a drink, and heads down to the den. There he flops himself down on the couch and grabs his phone. He hits speed dial no. 8. John picks up on second ring. “Hey, Johnny boy. You up and about?”

“Not doing any jumping jacks, but well enough to go back to work.”

Tom closes his eyes, stress he didn’t know he was feeling releasing its grip. “Good. I need you to get yourself over here, if not tonight, tomorrow. I need someone to talk to who can down a whiskey with me so I don’t feel like a loser for drinking alone.”

“Rough day?”

“You could say that. Our family just got a new member.”

“Grace is _pregnant_?”

Tom laughs. “Yeah, that’d be a hoot. ….on second thought, don’t say things like that. You’ll give me baby fever. The last thing I need is to lock myself up in this miserable life for another nineteen years. No. She’s not.”

“Sounds like we need to get Grace pregnant, if that’s what it takes for you to stick around.”

Tom chuckles. “I love how you say _we_ need to. Exactly how had you planned for that to work?”

“Shut up,” John says with an amused snort. “You’re derailing the topic. New family member? Did you get a dog?”

“Not exactly. Justin’s parents kicked him out for getting into college, more or less. So he’s moved in.”

“What the fu―! I’m on my way.”

Tom says goodbye and lays the phone on his chest with a big grin and those silly, misguided butterflies going wild inside of him. The Devil is definitely pulling the strings in his favour right now. It’s worth sticking around for. At least, a little bit longer…

* * *


	25. What's God to a Non-Believer?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom starts to feel more and more rebellious. And there's a little rebel in the house urging him on...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I BLAME THIS ON MY BETA!**
> 
> Without her putting ideas in Tom's head, this wouldn't have happened.

## Summer 2014

* * *

God knows there are undercurrents of tension in the household. Noah’s more withdrawn by the day, focusing on charity, church, and his faith, following in his mother’s footsteps. Jessi is sprightly and anticipatory about going to college, and the more she talks about it, the more Noah withdraws. Grace is gone most of the days, coming home late, exhausted. Tom and Justin’s affair does add some tension in its own way, despite it not being quite as obvious. They’re constantly trying to tease each other or sneak in moments of carnality. Since Justin moved in they haven't had sex, apart from BJs, handjobs, and frottage. Often they have to jump apart lest they be found out. 

Honestly, the riskier it is, the more arousing Tom finds it. Like kissing in the kitchen with the patio door open, while Noah’s in his room, Grace’s in the shower, and Jessi’s by the pool with a bunch of friends. Or taking Justin with him to go grocery shopping and stop somewhere secluded to coax orgasms out of each other. That kind of indulgence is very dangerous around here. Tom is torn between wanting to protect Justin and wanting the repercussions of being found out for himself. 

But they don't have penetrative sex due to the time required to prep. Tom can’t bring himself to allow Justin to top, nor to buy a buttplug and ask Justin to prep himself and wear it to be ready. 

But an opportunity comes unexpectedly and it awakens the vindictive anger in Tom like never before. 

Tom’s driving Jessi to a friend when Jessi’s phone rings. 

“Hi, Nana,” Jessi answers after looking at the caller ID. She’s quiet for a beat, listening. Then, “Can't you ask someone else to do it? I'm going to the city with some friends and I'm already late.”

Tom mouths ‘ _What?_ ’ at her. She looks really whiny about doing whatever she's asked. 

“Hold on,” she says, then covers the receiver on her phone and turns her head towards Tom. “They're out of town and they think they left the stove on. They want me to go check.”

“Tell her you'll do it.”

“But _daad_ …” Jessi whines. 

“Don’t argue. Just tell her.”

“Fine,” Jessi mutters. She removes her hand from the receiver and lifts the phone to her ear. “Alright, Nana. I'll do it. …..Nana, don't talk like that. I don’t want to hear it. ….Yes. Alright. Love you too, bye.” Jessi hangs up. 

“What did she say?”

“She heard us talk and said that you finally had something sensible to say. I'm so tired of getting stuck in the middle of conflicts. They make some jab at you every time I see or talk to them. Can't you just make up? You got along just fine until recently.”

“No we didn’t, pumpkin. And they can burn in hell for all I care. Those jabs you get to hear now were directed straight at me all my life and I'm tired of it. If they can't apologise and treat me like an adult then they can stay away.”

Jessi doesn’t answer. Instead she looks out of the window and mopes. After five minutes she speaks up. “We're going in the wrong direction.”

“No we're not. You’re already late. I'm dropping you off at Martin’s, then I'm going to check the stove. I'll call you so you can report that the mission accomplished. Just don’t say I did it.”

“Oh my God. You’re being childish. If you go check, you can call them.”

“You don’t want to be the one to take credit for something I do? Fine. But I'm not calling them. They asked _you_. Either we do it this way, or I'm turning the car around so you can do what they asked you yourself.”

“Alright, _alright_. I'll call them. Jeez.”

Jessi mopes a little while longer, but Tom's pleased. It doesn’t take long for Jessi to forget that she's mad and start talking chirpily again. Tom thinks they've spoilt her to the point of brattiness. He can’t help that. He’s too weak for her charm. Though she's never gotten herself out of doing chores, which is good, or a thing like this could've turned into a tantrum. 

He drops her off, getting a hug and a kiss on the cheek before she scampers off to the car where three of her friends are already waiting. Tom turns his car around and calls Justin. “Juss, where are you?”

“At home.”

“Good. Drop whatever you're doing. It’s time to have some angry hate sex.”

“Sir? What did I do?” Justin asks anxiously.

Tom chuckles. “Nothing. I'm heading to my parents house and it's empty. You in or out?”

Justin laughs, a low and mean sound that stirs the most debased urges in Tom. “I'm _so_ in.”

“Great. Make sure to dress as outrageously as you can, and grab lube and condoms. You can find lube either in my nightstand, or under the couch in the den. I'll be there in fifteen.”

“Yes, Mr.Rainsborough, Sir.”

Tom hangs up. His heart is speeding up excitedly. He catches himself getting aroused just thinking of the sheer magnitude of the sin they're going to commit. It trumps desecrating his marital bed. (Doing _that_ had come with a lot of guilty feelings.) Now he just feels vindictive. 

By the time he’s arrives home he's worked himself up to a semi. Justin’s already waiting by the gate, wearing a large hoodie with the hood pulled up to cover his face. Justin gets into the car and pushes the hood away. Tom must give him credit for being fast. He's got almost radiant turquoise lenses on, framed by a thick line of kohl, smudged to intensify his gaze even further. He’s fixed his hair in an artful way that Tom’s parents would find provocative. He’s exchanged his eyebrow ring for a bellbar with crystal studs ‘unsuitable for a guy’. Tom can see a studded leather collar necklace peek through the collar of his shirt. Tom wants to lean over and kiss him, but he knows better. He waits until they’re on the highway until he reaches out to put his hand on Justin’s thigh. Justin grabs his hand and resolutely moves it to his crotch. 

Tom chuckles darkly. “Shit. That’s a good boy.” He _likes_ when Justin takes what he wants. “You want me to warm you up, sweetheart?” he asks, massaging Justin’s dick through the fabric of his pants. 

“Yes, Sir,” Justin says with a smirk. Tom opens Justin’s fly, pulls down his underwear enough to take out his dick. He starts stroking it to hardness, while Justin grips the seat, losing the cocky expression and trading it for an excited, disbelieving holy-shit-in-moving-traffic! kind of expression. 

“Look at my cock, Juss. It’s straining my pants already, and all I've done is think about what I want to do with you. You know that my parents have been the leading force against sodomites all my life, probably long before. Did you know that?”

“N-no, Sir… I―” Justin cuts off with a whimpering moan when Tom twists his hand in a particularly pleasant way.

“You’re going to have to shift for me if you don't want me to let go,” Tom informs him. “You know how to drive with a manual gearbox?”

“Yes, Sir,” Justin answers and reaches for the shift sticks, breathing strained. “It’s all backwards from here, Sir.”

Tom chuckles, thrilling at the improvised game of self control and focus he just thrust upon the boy. “You'll figure it out,” he says with warm humour. He’s never been one for obedience type of of dominance games, but Justin brings it out of him. Maybe it's because of his current state of mind. That he’s given up on dreams of romance (he quickly subdues the image of John’s smiling face) and hopes of a future. Maybe it's just how Justin seems to get off on it. 

Sam was into the dominance schtick too, but not obedience. He likes the feral type of being overtaken. Tom imagines telling Sam to call him ‘Mr.Rainsborough’. Sam would treat it like a joke. Sam acted like a prize to be claimed and Justin as if he had to earn the reward of Tom’s attention, rather than the other way around like it should be. Tom’s too old for the boy. He should be wooing the boy, barely getting the time of day, yet here Justin is, trying to focus on Tom’s driving so he can shift to the right gear from an unfamiliar angle, biting his lip in pained concentration. 

“My parents don't know I'm gay. Nobody around here does, except you,” Tom says. “Yet for some reason I've never been good enough for them. Tell me, Juss, if you didn’t know I'm living a lie, wouldn’t you think I'd done alright for myself? I made straight A’s all through school, I married a smart and gorgeous girl, I have two strong, confident children, a nice house, no debts, money in the bank, and I managed to have a twenty years long pro-hockey career, which is more than most players. What do you say, Juss? Have I done well for myself?”

“Yes, Sir,” Justin says, voice strained. He’s slicking Tom’s grip on his cock with a steady supply of precome. The car makes a complaining sound as Justin fails to shift gear in time.

Tom tuts and chuckles. “Focus, baby.”

“I’m _trying_!”

“Hey, all you have to do is shift. _I_ have to keep us from becoming roadkill,” Tom says with a smirk, not taking his eyes off the road.

“With all due respect, Sir, _you’re_ not the one getting a handjob,” Justin protests frustratedly.

“You’re underestimating my level of arousal right now, sweetheart. And you’re doing good up until just now. Back to my parents. They’re well respected and they hate homosexuals. Imagine if they knew they raised a gay son. They’d burn me at a stake. Both metaphorically and physically, I have no doubt. Now imagine their horror if they knew I’d fucked you on their dining table until you came all over it, because I’m stuck envisioning doing just that.”

Justin laughs in horrified delight. 

“My father has an office with an old, sturdy mahogany desk. If I entered that room I had to keep quiet not to disturb him. I had to wait until he deemed fit to give me attention, no matter what my business with him was. If I disturbed him he was displeased and disappointed with me. But if my business was urgent and I _didn’t_ disturb him he was displeased and disappointed with me. I had no chance to do what he wanted, because however I chose, I chose wrong. I imagine sitting in his chair, laying you on your belly over his desk, and eat you out until you moan so loudly you shatter the silence and drown out the grandfather clock in the corner of the room.”

“Holy shit. _Fuck,_ Mr.Rainsborough…” Justin’s rolling his hips to meet his strokes now, leaking even more precome. Tom casts a glance at him, his cheeks are flushed, mouth hanging open. The look on his face is definitely one of approval of the imagery Tom’s painting.

“I was conceived it the master bedroom, if my parents are to be believed. There’s a big mirror in there, you know, one of those heirlooms with a thick, carved frame. Mom would try out Sunday dresses in front of it. She’d carefully put on her makeup by her old fashioned dressing table with its lion feet. The two mirrors give nice angles to witness what goes on in bed. I want to fuck you on it, hear every delicious sound I normally make you swallow. Hell, I want the _neighbours_ to hear them and wonder what goes on. We’re nearly there. Justin, do you want to have angry hate sex with me in my parents house?” Tom asks and smirks, side eyeing Justin.

“Yes, Sir!”

Tom makes a pleased sound, almost a low growl. He lets go of Justin’s dick and switches on the blinkers to turn into the street he grew up on. “That’s the answer I wanted. Now fix your pants. We’ve got one mission to carry out first.”

* * *

When they get inside Tom goes straight to the kitchen. The stove is indeed on. A kettle of water has boiled dry, blackening, and the stove plate is turning red. Tom switches it off, inwardly cursing his parents for still using old kitchen appliances with no built in safety measures. He quickly moves the kettle to another plate, then leaves the plate and kettle to cool off. He calls Jessi to make sure she tells his parents she has shut the stove off. After that he turns his attention to Justin who has dropped his hoodie on the floor inside the door. He’s wearing a turquoise fishnet tank top contrasting to his tanned skin, broad black leather cuffs with studs, that studded collar Tom had seen earlier, his silver cross, and close fitting black jeans.

“Perfect,” Tom says. “You look hot as hell. Like everything my parents would disapprove of, and I love it.”

Justin smiles, mischievous twinkle in his eyes. His bellbar flips out between his teeth. It’s not his regular one. This one’s light sky blue, and covered in soft plastic spikes. Tom is about to find out that he likes the sensation of it, proving that it isn't just metal piercings that does it for him. 

Justin, when not ordered to be quiet, is _loud_. He’s not verbal. Apart from exclamations of “ _Fuck!_ ”, “Oh my _Goood!_ ” and “Shit!”, parsed with barely audible, panted “Mr.Rainsborough,” sometimes with the addition of a whined “ _Siiiir_.” at the end. No, Justin doesn’t speak, but he whines, whimpers, moans, and keens. Normally, when Justin talks, his voice is low pitched, smooth, and fairly dark. But aroused his voice goes up several notches in pitch. Tom loves his sounds. 

As for talking, Tom makes up for it. The more he talks, the louder Justin moans. Tom finds himself talk in a way he hasn't done a lot in his life. A way he finds a bit vulgar. But since it drives Justin crazy, he’s not going to hold himself above it. “You like this, sweetheart? You want this big, fat cock inside of you? Want me to split you open with it?” It’s not him. It’s not who he is. But the way Justin’s eyes go mesmerized and glazed, mouth hanging open, nearly drooling, makes it well worth spouting filth he doesn’t even like to hear in porn.

When Justin comes all over Tom’s father's mahogany desk, crying out “ _Mr.Rainsborough!_ ”, it’s all Tom can do not to break out in hysterical laughter. Sometimes he forgets why he no longer wants to live.

They take breaks. Tom shows Justin around, telling him childhood memories. He gets pissed off all over again when he realises how few of those are happy memories free from anxiety. Those that are, are either from when he was very young or connected to hockey. 

He reflects that you shouldn’t need to repeat ‘I love my parents’ as a mantra for it to be true. If he could slam a door in his parents faces all over again, he would. 

When they're done in the master bedroom Justin walks around, looking into the wardrobe and pulling out drawers. He’s such a beautiful sight, sweat slicked and naked save from the cuffs, collar, and cross. Tanned save for the stark white skin that's been hidden under his swimming briefs. The tattoos and the white crystals by his brow catching the lamplight, glittering like diamonds. He takes Tom's mom's eye pen to better his makeup, opens the lids of her lipsticks to inspect the colours. He draws a stripe on his arm with a stark red one, then wets his finger to rub at it to see how easily it's to remove. 

“Is there anything you want to do before we need to leave, Juss?”

“No, Sir,” Justin answers, looking up at Tom. Then he hesitates. “Um… Maybe..? Yeah, no. It’s stupid.” His cheeks redden and he averts his gaze. 

Tom’s curiosity is officially piqued. “What is it?”

Justin shakes his head, taking a step back, looking at his feet, blushing even harder. “No. Forget I said anything.”

_Oh yeah, that’s likely._

Tom gets out of bed, barely managing to hide the pain that spears through his now badly abused leg. All the rest it had gotten when he was sick, undone in an afternoon. He walks up to Justin, smiling disarmingly, he cards both hands through Justin’s hair, looking down at him. “Are you embarrassed about it?” he asks redundantly.

“Well, _yeah_. I guess. And it’s nothing you’d do. So just forget about it.”

“Will it hurt you?” Tom asks.

“No. It’s nothing that’ll hurts. Look, can we forget I even said something?” Justin squirms.

Tom shakes his head. “Is it something you want to do to me, or something you want me to do to you?” he prods.

“You to me. I doesn’t matter. It’s just stupid.” Justin tries to back away, but Tom grabs him by the hips and tugs him close.

“Close your eyes, Juss,” Tom commands. He waits until Justin does before he goes on. “Would I be humiliating you if I did this thing to you?”

“No.” Justin is blushing even redder, the flush spreading down on his chest.

“Would you be humiliating me?” Tom asks, stroking Justin’s sides soothingly, buzzing with curiosity by now. He wonders what can be so bad that it brings Justin to this level of embarrassment. Whatever it is, he sincerely doubts it’s anything that crosses _his_ hard limits.

“Yes. No. _Maybe_... I don’t know.”

“Justin, baby, just tell me. Don’t be ashamed. If I don’t want to do it, I’ll tell you. And there are others out there that will want to do whatever is if I don’t. But try me. I’ve got an open mind,” Tom cajoles.

“Sir, it’s a girl thing. And you’re a guy.”

“A girl thing?”

“Yeah. It’s a thing girls do that I find really fucking hot. It’s…” The tips of Justin’s ears are burning red by now. But keeping his eyes closed helps him get the words out. “You know how they put on those bright lipsticks. And it leaves marks wherever they put their lips. And, and, it’s. Fuck, it’s hot. I’ve… _God_ , this is embarrassing. Um… I’ve fantasised about getting a blowjob with lipstick… you know, that smears on, um, on the dick… but I’m not expecting you to do it. ...it was just a through. I mean, you’re not a girl. I just…” Justin flusters. 

“Justin, open your eyes.” Justin opens them and looks up at Tom apprehensively. Tom reaches out for the red lipstick Justin had tried on his arm. “This is the colour you want?” he asks and holds it up.

“Yes, Sir,” Justin answers, apprehension shifting to anticipation.

“Don’t presume I won’t do something before you’ve asked,” Tom says, lips quirked upward. Then he turns to the mirror on the dressing table and uncorks the lipstick. He leans closer to the mirror and applies it the way he’s seen Grace and his mom do so many times.

_A hand slaps the lipstick out of his hand. It falls to the floor and he startles. ‘Thomas! What are you doing? I’ve told you, you’re not allowed to touch my makeup.’_

_’I’m sorry, momma. I was just playing.’ He blushes in shame for doing something he knew he wasn’t allowed._

_’Whatever game you were playing that requires lipstick isn’t suitable for a boy. Only girls can use lipstick, you hear that, Thomas?’ his mom admonishes._

_’Yes, momma.’_

_’And don’t you forget. God hates men who uses makeup. Now pick it up and go play somewhere else. And don’t get your clothes dirty. We’re having guests in an hour.’_

_’Yes, momma.’_

The long forgotten memory is triggered by the sense and smell, the environment, and the sensation of the lipstick. As a young child he’d taken another colour. A pearly pink. Attracted by the pearly shine of it. He’d been playing that he was one of the guys in Bosom Buddies, a TV show that launched the year before with Tom Hanks and Peter Scolari, where they dress as women to rent a cheap apartment in a women-only building. The plot kind of passed him by, but he thought it was funny anyway. It was a forbidden show of course. Though he’d managed to get a couple of peeks.

_You’re wrong, mom. I can use lipstick just fine. Who’s going to stop me? Your God?,_ Tom thinks to himself as he studies himself in the mirror, leaning his hands against the dressing table. He thinks he looks silly, but Justin, staring at him in the mirror image, looks mesmerized. Tom turns his head to look at him with narrowed eyes. He purses his lips in an almost kiss, then smirks lopsidedly. “This is what you wanted, Juss?”

“Yes,” Justin breathes, almost reverently. 

Tom turns around fully and goes down on his knees in front of Justin, looking up at him. He puts his hands on Justin’s hips and slowly leans in to press a kiss by the juncture between leg and hip, not releasing Justin’s eyes with his gaze. It leaves a red lip print. Justin’s breath hitches, skin prickling. Tom thinks the goosebumps must be solely from the mental stimulation, which is all kinds of wonderful. Justin’s dick twitches and starts filling. Tom chuckles darkly. “Shit, boy. I've honestly never met a guy who gets an erection as easily, or recuperates as quickly as you. What is it? The fifth time today?”

Justin, whose blush had started to recede, turns redder again. “Yeah… it's not always like this. Only when I fall i― fall for someone. It’s embarrassing.”

“It's fantastic. I wish I could recuperate as fast as you,” Tom says honestly. “I wouldn’t have to hold myself back if I did.” 

“I hate that you do tha― _oooh_.” Justin cuts off with a moan when Tom mouths at his balls, leaving lipstick marks at it. After that there's no more talking, as Tom grabs Justin’s cock in a hand and licks a stripe on its underside. As this is a visual fantasy for Justin, he pays more attention to make it look good than he does using tricks that feels good. He kisses the cock head, waiting a beat before he swallows it down, to give Justin time to take in the image of the lip marks. He pushes at Justin’s hip to shift him so he’s leaning his ass against the dressing table. Then Tom curls his lips over his teeth, taking the length of Justin’s cock into his mouth. He presses down with his lips several times when he bobs his head up, making sure he leaves marks. He lets the cock head rest against his flattened tongue inside his mouth, framed by red lips, looking up at Justin with open mouth, stroking the base of his cock. Justin looks _so_ hot like this. Lips kiss bitten and swollen, cheeks and chest painted with a red, splotchy flush, eyes glazed and messily framed by soot, hands holding the edge of the dressing table in a white knuckled grip. He’s staring down on Tom with a mix of disbelieving awe and arousal. 

Tom then goes to town, doing his best to make it both feel good and look good. He reflects about the wondrous disbelief in Justin. _‘It’s a girl thing’_. So much shame and embarrassment, and for what? A little paint? It's ridiculous. Why would God mind if men put paint on their lips? Why would he care? And if he cares, what kind of God is he _really_ , if he puts crossdressing up there with rape, murder, and torture? 

_Maybe there's no God after all._

It’s the first time in his life that thought brings comfort. 

He pushes any thoughts of anything but Justin out of his mind, reaches for the lipstick and paints on a new layer. He sucks Justin’s cock head back into his mouth like a lollipop, Justin keening out an “ _Oh my God!_ ” as he does. 

Tom doesn’t have to work long before Justin’s balls begin to pull up in preparation for coming. Tom pops off, jerking the boy off, holding the cock just above his slightly parted lips. “Come on, baby. Put your load all over my lips. Let me taste what that pretty, little dick of yours have to offer. Come on my face, sweetheart,” he urges. 

“It’s not lit― _gnn!_ ” Justin shoots a stripe on Tom’s face, landing in and on his mouth, on his nose and forehead. “ _Fuck, fuck, fuck!_ ”

Tom smiles up at him and takes Justin’s hand, bending in all fingers but the forefinger. Then he guides the hand to his face, using Justin’s finger to drag along the come on his lips, making Justin feed it to him. He thrills excitedly when it causes another wave of orgasm, although now Justin’s pumping air. 

Panting, Justin feeds him the rest of his come without having to be guided to do so. Tom gets up, smiling contentedly, hiding a wince when his leg protests painfully. He kisses Justin’s neck and hugs him close. The boy is wrung out to jelly. Tom leans back and inspects his kiss mark before meeting Justin’s dazed, heavy lidded eyes. “You liked that?”

Justin lets out a giddy laugh, beaming tiredly up at him. “Yeah. Yeah, that. That might be the hottest thing I've ever experienced,” he confesses with a grin. “You don’t think it was humiliating?”

Tom chuckles. “Have you lost your respect for me for doing it?”

“No! No, Sir. I feel even more respect for you, if anything,” Justin says with a sincere, adoring smile. 

“Then it wasn’t humiliating. And please, don't hesitate to tell me if you want to try something. More likely than not, I’m game.”

“I’ll try.”

“I like it when you do that, vixen.” Tom kisses him softly on the lips. “I’m going to hit the showers to make myself presentable again. Could you make a cursory cleanup of our mess while I do?”

“Cursory?”

“Leave it messy enough to keep my parents guessing, but not so messy as to get Jessi in trouble. She’s the one they asked to check the stove, and she told them she did it.”

Justin grins. “Yes, Sir.”

“I guess your parents were smarter than mine, huh? They should have taken my keys too,” Tom says with a smirk.

Justin chortles in surprise. Then breaks out laughing with an elated glow about him.

Tom can still hear him chuckle about it when he leaves the room.

* * *

Tom lets Justin drive home. He gives some bad excuse for it, but in reality, his leg is throbbing painfully and he doesn’t trust it. The shower erased every outward trace of their vigorous activities, except for marks that can’t be washed away. But none of them are placed where he can’t hide them with a shirt, and luckily Justin isn’t one to suck hickeys. He seems to know he shouldn’t leave marks, and for that Tom is grateful. He tries to feel guilty about what they’ve just done, but fails. All he feels is vastly pleased. 

He reaches out and takes Justin’s hand, holding it. He never wanted to hold Cal’s hand after they’d been together. Didn’t want the intimacy. And yet Cal still calls or texts now and then. He was vaguely hoping for Cal to give up in the face of silence, but to no avail. He’s sure Cal has a lot of feelings for him that goes way beyond the emotionless hookups it was meant to be, and he just can’t bring himself to break someone’s heart over the phone. He’ll have to meet up with Cal sooner or later. The man deserves that respect.

He lets go of Justin’s hand when they come to an intersection, but only to shift gears flawlessly despite sitting in the passenger seat. (He’d had to do that when he helped teaching Jessi and Noah to drive.) Justin mutters “Show off,” but when he throws a look at Tom, he’s beaming. The smile hasn’t left Justin’s face since Tom came out of the shower, finding Justin all dressed and ready to go. The look in Justin’s eyes is one of unadulterated adoration. It’s possible it means another heart to break. Tom hopes it’ll solve itself when Justin goes off to college. That Juss will meet someone, fall in love, and forget all about him.

Tom takes Justin’s hand again once he’s shifted. Justin’s smile gets wider, dimples deepening further. He’s truly gorgeous. Justin hasn’t showered yet. He just dressed. He said he’d shower at home, since they didn’t know when Tom’s parents would come home. Tom thinks it’s because he wants to keep the scent of them as long as possible, as well as the lipstick marks he has on him. He truly looks all fucked out and radiantly happy. It’s okay. Tom isn’t expecting anyone to be at home when they get there. But he does let go of Justin’s hand when they enter the more populated areas of the town.  
Tom was wrong.

When they come home, John’s car is parked on their driveway. They park the car beside it and get out. John comes walking around the house when they near the door. He breaks out in a smile and lifts his hand in greeting when he sees them. “Hey! You weren’t answering your phone so I figured I’d swing by to see if you were at home,” he says.

Tom grins at him. “I didn’t hear you call. I was picking Justin up. He’s been on a date,” he says and indicates Justin with a jerk of his head.

John looks at Justin, does a doubletake, then breaks out laughing. “Woah boy! Someone got _lucky_. You’ve gotten yourself a girlfriend, Juss?”

“No,” Justin says and frowns, casting Tom an accusing glare.

“Sure he has,” Tom persists teasingly. “Just look at the kiss mark she’s left on the left side of his neck.”

“Who is it? Anyone I know? We’re not gonna have to defend you from an angry father, are we? What does she look like?” John barrages Justin with questions as the three of them heads for the door, Justin leading the way.

“None of your business,” Justin says.

John looks at Tom. “Did you see her? What did she look like?”

“Blond. Blue eyes. Kinda tall,” Tom answers with an amused smirk, hoping Justin will get the hint and play along, offering them a good cover for the future.

Justin’s not in on it. He looks at Tom with bemusement, lifting an eyebrow skeptically.

“Was she hot?” John wants to know.

“Your type, I’m thinking,” Tom says with a shiteating grin. (A man can hope.)

Justin rolls his eyes and whirls on them. “Mr.Rainsborough did this to me,” he says defiantly, tilting his chin up in his typical punky manner, and pointing at the lipstick mark on his neck.

Tom breaks out laughing as if it’s hilarious, but his heart takes a leap and goes into overdrive from fear.

Luckily John’s laughing just as hard.

_You devilish little shit!_ , Tom thinks. “Oh, that’s right! How could I forget? Now where did I put my lipstick?” Tom says, grinning widely and pats his pockets, which, even more luckily, John finds even funnier.

Justin snorts, somewhere between amusement and contempt, shakes his head, then spins around to unlock the door. He goes straight to his room, leaving the two of them laughing on the doorstep.

“Damn! That boy likes to keep his lovelife private, doesn’t he?” John says with an amused smile when he’s gone.

“One can hope,” Tom answers.

“Hope God won’t judge him too harshly for having sex before getting married,” John says jokingly.

“There is no god,” Tom says, stepping inside. He misses how it makes John startle and go thoughtful behind his back.

* * *


	26. The Wife and the Mistress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next starts roughly at the same time.

## August 2014

* * *

“What took you so long?” Tom asks when John falls down in the couch beside him and takes the charger out of his pocket to give to Tom. John was just supposed to get Tom’s charger from the master bedroom while Tom set up Netflix in the den, but it had taken a lot longer than it should.

John looks troubled and shakes his head. “I think your daughter just flirted with me. If it was anyone else, I’d be sure, but… No. Tom, your daughter just flirted with me,” he says, bluntly putting a volatile subject in the open, looking apprehensively at Tom.

The instinctive reaction Tom has is to angrily deny it. ‘His daughter would never…’, but he stops himself before the words are out of his mouth. What does he know of what Jessi would or wouldn’t do? Teenagers have secret lives of their own just like he does. John would recognise if a woman came onto him or not. “You sure?”

“Yes. Yes, I am. And I want you to know I’ve done nothing to my knowledge, to spark or encourage it. I just want you to know about it, in case it happens again.”

“You want me to talk to her?”

“It’s not necessary unless you want to. As long as you’re aware. Just know that I would never, _ever_ touch your daughter. I may be a horndog, but that line is one I couldn’t cross.”

Tom grabs John by the neck and tugs him forcefully towards himself. John doesn’t put up resistance, just holds his hands up in surrender. Tom shows his teeth and growls “You’d better remember that or―“

“I know, I know. You’ve got a gun,” John says with a disarming smile.

“I was thinking more in the line of castration. If you’re going to go for a woman in this family, it has to be Grace,” Tom says. He doubts John would take advantage of his daughter’s advances. He trusts John. He also thinks that John is telling him straight away as a safeguard for himself. Jessi is a beautiful young woman that would present a temptation to him. But with Tom aware, the chances of getting caught skyrockets, thus lessens the temptation.

“I wouldn’t touch her either, Tommy. You know that.”

Tom lightens his grip so his hand is just cupping John’s neck instead of squeezing. He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the couch. “I almost wish you would. If it'd make her happy.”

He feels John shift to look at him. “What happened?” he asks. 

_It’s almost eerie how well he reads me sometimes_ , Tom thinks. It could have been just one of Tom's usual negative statements. It isn’t, and Tom wonders how John picked up on the difference. 

“I was putting away laundry today… I found antidepressants in Grace’s underwear drawer.”

John sits up straight, freeing himself from Tom's hand. “No shit?”

“Mhm. I did that to her. One way or another, it’s my fault. But at least it explains the sudden change in her temperament.”

“Don’t take all the blame. She is responsible for her choices too. She could have said yes to a divorce and made herself a new life,” John comforts. At first Tom rejects the statement, but then John turns his back halfway towards him, pulls a leg up on the couch and leans against his shoulder, making the comfort physical. Somehow, it makes a difference. He'd tell others that it's never one person's fault if two argues. It’s just that, he'd _known_. Before he'd married Grace, he'd known he was gay. Although, he was young and naive. He'd still thought he could change. Somehow. “Besides,” John says. “Maybe it's a good thing. Antidepressants are supposed to make you happier, right?”

Tom turns his head to look at him, finding his head twisted and tilted upward to look at Tom. Locking gaze with those warm brown eyes, so close, is all it takes to send his pulse racing. “I'm not going to get antidepressants,” he states.

“Never said you should,” John answers without breaking eye contact. 

“You’re my antidepressant,” Tom says, wanting to smack himself for being such a cheesy moron.

“Bro. You’re a sap, but I'll take it,” John chuckles without looking away. 

“I'm a sap, so sue me.”

“I would. But I don’t think any court would hear my case,” John jokes, making both of them chortle. If the joke is lame, it passes Tom straight by and goes right into hilarious. And they're _still_ keeping eye contact. Tom used to be so sure John’s straight. Lately, that conviction had been wavering. But he’s afraid he’s coloured by being in love with John, and as such reads way too much into things. Like the prolonged eye contact right now. It breeds butterflies and hope he shouldn't keep. Justin isn’t in love with John and reads him as straight. Tom has to trust him on this, since his own judgement is clouded. It’s a challenge big enough to fight intrusive thoughts like now―’ _What would happen if I cupped his cheek and bent my head down to kiss him?_ ’―or thoughts of sneaking up and hugging him from behind, giving him a playful lovebite on the neck, or putting a hand on his thigh in the car, or―the list is endless. 

“I saw that there's an antique store in Jones’ creek. Have you been there?” Tom asks, thinking of John’s confession during their date that only he knows was a date. 

“No,” John answers. 

“Want to go there with me tomorrow? I saw they kept the store open until 8 on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“I'd love to,” John says enthusiastically and beams up at him. And this is it. He’s looking at Tom with heart eyes. And it _could_ just be friendship. It _could_. And if he misreads John and makes a move… He’s tempted to. He'd get his wish one way or another. Either John’s into him, or John would destroy him. It’s a win win situation, right? 

Tom’s the one to break the gaze. “Good. Then it’s settled. I need a smoke. You coming?” Chickening out. Not today. Another day. Eternal doom can wait.

* * *

Justin’s a teasing little shit and Tom _loves it_.

Since Tom got well, John comes over almost every day after work, or if he can't, he'll meet Tom by the shooting range during his lunch break. Anytime John suggests meeting, Tom says yes. Unknowingly, John strings him along like a puppet on a string, and nobody notices. 

Except for Justin. And he isn’t happy about it.

Justin said he had more jewelry than Jessi, and possibly he wasn’t lying. Although the only one he switches is the bellbar on his tongue. Like when Tom and John are sitting by the kitchen table one day, looking over the finances involved with Justin and Jessi’s college stay. Justin’s living arrangement and budget was done. Now they’re working on Jessi’s. There is two options. The first apartment Jessi had looked at was a bust, but Grace had urged them to look at a couple of others and it came down to either a one room apartment further from college, or a three bedroom apartment with a better location. Jessi had happily stated that she didn’t mind sharing with roommates. So now they’re looking which would be the best option. The one room apartment was cheaper, but it would require a car with all the expenses that came with it, like fuel and garage rent. Having a car isn’t cheap. The three bedroom apartment was close enough for Jessi to walk or bicycle, cutting costs quite a bit. So they’re counting and going over pros and cons. Jessi needs peace and quiet to study, but a long commute would drain energy. “...if she finds two roommates to share the apartment with,” Tom ends his sentence.

John chuckles. “Believe me, she will. With this location? She will. As many as she wants. If she wanted to she could probably find four, putting two of them up in the living room. But that may get too rowdy for a good study environment.”

They’re both sitting at a corner of the table, John with his back to the room and Tom on the short end of the table, their heads close together and their knees brushing. John is (to Tom’s mind) a financial wizard. There’s already five or six papers with different budgets in front of them. John has included taxes, checked out the average local prices on food, included clothes and other stuff that Tom wouldn't have thought of. He’d just count with what food costs here for an instance. John had also made a ‘perfect’ budget, chuckled, and made two more, but accounted for two different lifestyles―‘study-until-death girl’, and ‘party girl’. Tom had argued that Jessi isn’t a party girl, and John argued that they wouldn’t know what kind of lifestyle Jessi would choose in college. All Tom had to say about that was making a suffering noise, thinking of what Justin had said.

Grace walks in, heading to the fridge. “Hey, John. I ran into Cathy today. She said she thought you were having an affair, using Tom as a cover.”

John looks up. “What did you say?”

Grace sniggers, eyes twinkling, and leans against the counter, opening her soda can. “I said that unless you are having an affair _with_ Tom, she needn't worry. I told her you're practically glued together, and that she's welcome to stop by to see for herself.”

“Jesus, Grace. You can’t say things like that. People may get the wrong idea.”

Grace makes a dismissive gesture. “Relax. Nobody’s going to think you and Tom are up to anything untowards.” She takes a sip of the soda. “Are you getting anywhere with the budget?”

“Yes. It seems like the three bedroom apartment is the best choice, all things considered,” Tom says. 

“That’s great. Jessi loved that one. She’s excited about having flatmates too. Say, John, Gemma isn’t by any chance going to college anywhere nearby Jessi?” Grace asks. 

“No. She’s heading for Vermont.”

Grace shrugs. “Oh well. Just a thought. Anyway, duty calls.” She pushes away from the counter and waves them goodbye before leaving to do whatever it is she does nowadays. She’s generally in a better mood when John’s around, but it’s not enough to get her to stick around for longer periods. Not that Tom minds getting to have John to himself. But sometimes he wonders… They would be a beautiful couple. If they could make each other happy, he wouldn’t stand in their way.

They’re left alone again, but not for long. Justin enters the kitchen and comes to stand behind John’s back, leaning over his shoulder to see what they're doing. Deeming that he isn't getting the attention he wants from Tom, he leans back so John can't see his face, and deliberately flips the bellbar out to hitch against his lips. 

It’s _not_ his usual bellbar. This one is tipped with a yellow ball with tiny text on it. When Tom catches what it says he chokes on his own spit and has to cough.

John turns around to see what Justin’s up to, but Justin withdraws his tongue in time and just gives John a closelipped, innocent smile. 

The damage to Tom’s mind is already done. His body is buzzing with want in the wake of Justin’s bold move. When John looks away Justin flips it out again. Black text against yellow, ringed by those luscious pink lips.

`I`  
`Suck`  
`Dick `

The forbidden message, the risk, and the pure sin of it has Tom gagging to get Justin alone, John’s presence be damned. It doesn’t take him long to create a somewhat valid excuse, take Justin with him to the garage where he locks the door and gets to his knees, giving Justin a blowjob while Justin presses his hands over his mouth not to let out his delicious little noises.

It doesn’t matter what message is printed on the bellbar, as long as it's perverted and forbidden it drives Tom crazy. And Justin figures out real quick that flashing a wretched message just for Tom will get him the attention he wants. Different colours, red, pink, yellow, white, and black studs with black or white text says things like ‘Cum Here’, ‘Slut’, ‘Fuck Me’, ‘I ❤ Dick’, and ‘Eat Me’.

Tom figures out equally fast that Justin has a thing for him swearing, using obscenities, and dirty talking. Leaning in to give Justin some dirty talk in the midst of other people will have the boy fleeing to a toilet to get an awkward boner under control in no time. Justin will throw a passive aggressive fit after that, complete with dark looks and mopeyness. 

Tom manages to make it worse for the boy, cornering him alone and pushing him, stomach against the wall. Tom kisses his neck, playing with his nipple ring with one hand, stroking his dick inside his pants but outside of his underwear with his other hand. “You’re not jerking off to take care of those boners, are you?” he whispers, sucking Justin’s earlobe into his mouth and grinding his semi against Justin’s ass.

“What if I am?” Justin asks defiantly, looking over his shoulder. 

“Because if you are, you won't need my help to get off, will you?” Tom husks into Justin’s ear, revelling in the goosebumps he’s causing. 

Justin gnashes his teeth in frustration. Like Tom would be able to keep his hands to himself. Hah! A door opening downstairs has Tom jumping away and leaving Justin in his frustrated arousal. 

Justin doesn’t take chances. Tom notice the difference on how fast and hard Justin starts coming after that. He'd never hold it against Justin if he disobeyed, but secretly he thrills over the young man’s obedience. 

Speaking of thrills and goosebumps, Tom has a new mission in life. John. 

Tom takes every excuse he can get to try to tease John’s skin into an outbreak of shivers or prickled hairs.

He tries not to be obvious about it. Small things, like picking a loose strand of hair (real or imaginary) from the back of John’s neck for an instance, or adjusting his clothes in a way he _knows_ will tickle. 

He’s also doing the stupid little playful flirty things that _could_ be construed as purely friendly, like bumping John out of the way with his hip with a teasing smirk, or always choosing a route in a narrow passage that will guarantee touch. 

At times he's downright capital letter Flirty, but only when they're alone or only Justin is nearby. It makes John nervous. Tom knows he’s overstepped any time John flees one way or another. Yet he never calls Tom out on it. (Like Tom tells himself he wants him to, although he continues to chicken out on the chances he gets to leave no doubt.)

There’s a lot of childish play going on when they hang out. Like Tom stealing John’s baseball cap and holding it away from John while John tries to wrestle it from him. That particular episode took place behind the house by the pool and ended abruptly when they suddenly got hosed down with cold water by Justin. (Tom has to hand it to him, the boy’s crafty.) To their hilarity Paul had seen Justin attach the hose to the tap on the wall, open the tap and tote the hose around the corner. Paul called out a snide reminder that watering is strictly prohibited. Naturally it led to the three of them coming around to the front to aim the hose at Paul, opening ‘fire’. When Paul runs into his house, waving his fist and damning them to Hell, all of them, Tom yells back a suggestion that he should run back and forth along his rose bushes instead so he could blame Tom for their green leaves, rather than sneak out to water in the middle of the night. It keeps them giggling long after and spreads further mirth when they retells the story to Grace and the kids.

John’s starting to relax with the rest of Tom’s family too, making himself a bigger space amongst them than before. He fits right in.

John and Tom walks into the living room, finding Noah in one armchair and Jessi in another, watching Die Hard. Tom sits down in the couch, putting his feet on the living room table. John flops down on the other side of the couch, but lies down, putting his legs on Tom’s lap without so much as a second though, sending Tom’s pulse racing.

Jessi and Noah don’t react to it as if it is odd behaviour in anyway. 

And why should they, really? When they themselves are that familiar with each other. 

Tom’s stupid cheeks are hot, but he focus on the TV and adds his own commentary to the movie, along with the others.

Grace comes into the room and John looks up at her. “I’m sorry. Did I take your seat? Do you want to join us? I’ll sit up.”

Grace looks at the TV. “ _Die Hard_? No thanks. How many times can you watch this crap anyway?”

“Mo- _om_ , it’s culture,” Jessi says with an eyeroll and twists to look at Grace, standing beside her armchair.

“Culture?” Grace chuckles. “Hardly.”

“You just don’t understand, because you’re in the wrong generation,” Jessi says chastising.

Tom and John loses it laughing. “You hear that, honey? It’s culture, but you wouldn’t understand,” Tom says, grinning.

John grins equally shiteating up at Grace. “Yeah, Grace. _You’re_ in the wrong generation.”

Grace huffs and chuckles, shaking her head fondly at them. She ruffles John’s hair and sticks her tongue out at Jessi, then turns and walks out of the room, leaving John and Tom giggling on the couch, Jessi and Noah’s chuckling along. John holds out a fist to Jessi, who’s in the armchair closest to him. She bumps her fist with his, laughing.

And it gets to Tom. 

How John just slots into his family flawlessly (but in a different way than Justin). He works well with both Grace and the kids, and relieves some of the friction between Grace and Tom. He feels like he’s brought home his boyfriend, and gotten him accepted. (Apart from that little detail that John doesn’t _know_ he’s the boyfriend.)

* * *

It’s funny how many excuses you can find, to get to feel the person you’re in love with, close to you. John enjoys spending time with the whole family as well as just hanging with Tom. He’s a sociable creature. So Tom ends up coming out of the den more often than before. They’re watching TV in the living room, talking constantly about basically nothing, when John grabs the remote to change the channel. Tom snatches it from him. “I’m the king of this household, _I_ will wield the Stick of Power,” he says with an arrogant, teasing smirk, and changes channel to something ridiculous. (Fox news, in this case.)

_’Stick of Power’??? Jesus Christ! What’s wrong with me?_

“Oh yeah?” John says, rising to the bait, something playful, predatory igniting in his gaze and posture. “We’ll see about that.” Then he dives for the remote.

Tom holds it away from him, trying to fend it off. He’s doing a fairly good job of it, twisting and kicking in John’s grip. Couches aren’t ideal for wrestling matches and their efforts will rewards them with bruises as wayward elbows and knees bump into things harder than they should. They’re both laughing too much to give a damn. Tom trashes when John has him locked down, trying to pry his fingers from the remote. They tumble off the couch, bumping the living room table, knocking a glass off it to shatter with a crash on the other side of the table. Tom lands on his back, John over himself, and loses his grip on the remote. He’s laughing to the point of wheezing. John sits up, triumphantly straddling him and holding the remote up like a prize. 

Grace comes running from the kitchen and stops in the doorway, drawn by the crash. She scowls at them, fists on her hips. “For heaven’s sake! You’re adults! Would you please act like it instead of tearing the house down?”

John looks up at her. “Hah! I think not!” he declares proudly and scrambles to his feet. He takes a few quick strides towards Grace, grabs her by the waist, and swoops her up, spinning back to face Tom. “The king has been usurped! I have conquered this household now. I have taken the Stick of Power _and_ the beautiful queen.”

Grace makes a whoop of surprise when she’s lifted, then bursts out laughing. “ _Oh, my God_! You’re such dorks!”

“My lady. May I present you with the Stick of Power as a peace offering? I grant you the honour of choosing what we should watch, to end the Great War of the Remote,” John says theatrically with a shiteating grin, easily holding Grace above the ground with one arm, pressed towards his side. He offers her the remote.

Laughing, she takes it. She switches channel to Nickelodeon. “There. Now put me down and clean up the glass,” she says, trying to be stern and failing miserably.

“Will do,” John says and puts her down.

She returns to the kitchen after handing John the remote back, but they can hear her laugh. Several times after they’ve cleaned up and settled in the couch they hear her chortling to herself in the kitchen.

So they’re acting like buffoons a lot of the time, since Tom doesn’t really know how to stop himself from wanting John close. But they also bicker, because John has developed a sixth sense for knowing when Tom’s over taxed himself and is in pain, and Tom thinks he should mind his own God damned business. Not that John gives a shit what Tom thinks, when John thinks he’s being an idiot. That Tom _is_ an idiot has nothing to do with it, John should just back off! Well, he doesn’t, so they fight. But it never gets volatile. And when they don’t bicker or play around, they talk. Because words never seem to run out. They certainly don’t agree on everything, but they agree where it matters and respects each other where it doesn’t.

And in all this, Justin keeps intruding.

Tom’s glad he does. He’s starting to angst about the boy leaving, which should be a relief, but isn’t. God knows Justin is a master at diverting attention his way. Bold as brass at times. 

Like that night when John, Tom, and Grace are sitting by the small table on the patio. 

John coaxed Grace to join them for a glass of wine that turned into several. It must be half past two in the morning and they’re all tipsy. Tom’s sitting with his arm slung around the back of Grace’s chair and his calf pushed against John’s leg, John sitting opposite from them, currently retelling a very serious incident that has Grace leaned forward, focused. Tom’s already heard this and is just enjoying the moment. The stars, the chirping of crickets, the warmth from the people he’s with and the tea lights on the table.

The stillness is suddenly broken by music blasting from Justin’s open window. 

“.... _You... Your sex is on fire!…_ ”

Tom can tell straightaway that the song―‘Sex On Fire’ by Kings of Leon―is a personal message to him.

“For heaven’s sake! We specifically told him to use headphones at night,” Grace says with annoyance. “I swear to God, he’s testing us at every turn.” She moves to get up, but Tom stops her.

“Stay. I’ll go talk to him.”

“Thanks,” Grace says and gives him a grateful smile, leaning back in her chair.

Tom leaves them, hearing John ask Grace if Justin’s been a problem since he moved in while he walks away. Justin hasn’t, per se. But he’s done the occasional thing to test how hard the leash is held. Harmless things like this. Of course, it isn’t as harmless as it seems, with Tom answering the ‘call’.

Tom holds on to the bannisters while he takes the stairs. No need to be reckless. Upstairs he opens Justin’s door without knocking, donning a stern expression. Justin’s sitting shirtless in his bed, wearing sweatpants. He apprehensively looks up when the door opens, but when he sees it’s Tom, a slow, cocky smirk spreads on his lips. Tom comes inside, closes the door behind himself, locks it, and goes straight for the laptop. He gives Justin a reproachful look and turns the volume down to acceptable. “Jessi and Noah are sleeping, Juss. We told y―“ Tom starts to scold, but breaks off when he spots something familiar on Justin’s desk. By the way Justin’s eyes widens in horror, he wasn’t supposed to see it. “You thieving little shit,” Tom says with an amused lilt, and reaches out to pick up the stolen object. There, under a pile of papers and knick knacks, is his mother’s lipstick. “You just couldn’t help yourself from taking a little memento, could you?” Tom asks and holds up the lipstick.

“Sir. I…” Justin says nervously and fidgets.

Tom chuckles. “Stealing is a crime as well as a sin. Don’t leave it in the open where it will be seen,” he says and opens the top desk drawer to hide it. But for the second time in a minute he gets a surprise, gaze snapping to Justin, who’s lighting up like a stoplight, blushing so hard. “These are new,” Tom states, thrilling excitedly inside. The drawer’s hiding a fleshlight, lube, condoms, two small vibrators, anal beads, and a dildo. Justin certainly hadn’t packed them from home.

“Yes, Sir.”

Tom puts the lipstick in the drawer, turns towards the window and leans over the desk to stick his head outside. “John, honey, I’m going to be up here for a while. I need to have a talk with Juss,” he calls out with a serious voice.

“You do that, sweetie,” Grace calls back. “I’ll be here when you get back,” John assures him.

It’s with dark elation Tom closes the window and turns towards Justin, giving the boy a predatory show of teeth. “I’ve got one hour to punish you before they’ll start wondering what’s up. And you better be real. fucking. Quiet.”

“Yes, _Sir_ ,” Justin says, looking as awed and thrilled as Tom feels. And for about fifty minutes, to ‘Sex on Fire’ on repeat―Jessi and Noah sleeping on the other side of the corridor, Grace and John outside―they go on proving that sex between them is _indeed_ on fire. Plus Tom gets to cross ‘Fucking Justin on Princess Sheets’ off his bucket list.

“I wish I could stay the night,” Tom says, meaning it, afterwards while he’s kissing the boy goodbye.

“But John’s downstairs?”

“I know. Still wish I could stay.” The statement puts a smug, delighted expression on Justin’s face. “Don’t go pulling the music trick again, though. Grace will come the next time, if I failed.”

“No, Sir.”

After a last kiss, Tom goes to quickly wash up and change into sweats and a hoodie. He can explain that by the night chill. But his leg is throbbing painfully and starts feeling unstable. He finds himself at the top of the stairs, gripping the bannisters, looking down and… hesitating. He remembers the spear of pain and the fear that followed when he last fell. Walking downstairs is so much riskier than upstairs. Not that breaking his neck would be a bad thing. Just not… not right now…

John turns the corner and comes into view at the bottom of the stairs. He stops and looks up, meeting Tom’s gaze for a moment. Tom’s not sure what he sees there. Fear? Pain? Desperation? Whatever it is, it spurs John into action. He takes the stairs two at a time, reaches Tom and grips his waist, pulls his arm on the injured side to hitch around his neck, supporting Tom. Wordlessly, they get down the stairs side by side. In the kitchen John lets go and heads straight for Tom’s painkillers. He takes two in his hand, grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and hands it all to Tom. Tom swallows the pills and drains half the water bottle, grateful of the silence about his predicament. Despite the pain, despite the fucked-uppedness of the situation he’s gotten himself into―breaking all these ‘I would nevers’―life isn’t half bad at the moment. He’s got his ‘wife’ and his ‘mistress’, getting most of his needs met. It won’t last. The clock is counting down. But he’s actually enjoying life more again.

* * *

Justin’s also feeling the clock ticking. He’s getting bolder. Giving them more time, that Tom hadn’t allowed himself to ask for.

Tom’s lying on the couch in the den one night. He’s set up a bed down here too, but more often than not he sleeps on the couch, dozing off while listening to music. As things had evolved, maybe he’d be allowed to sleep beside Grace again, but he doesn’t want to. The door opens upstairs and he sits up to peer over the backrest to see who’s coming. When he hears the clicking sound of the lock, he instinctively knows. His heart speeds up, because he’s fantasised about this. Anticipation racks up as the stairs creak under footsteps. Justin comes into view in the darkness, lit only by the fire in the fireplace. He’s snazzed himself up. Fixed his hair and put kohl under his eyes. He’s wearing a black tanktop and black jeans with a studded belt. He’s also wearing a leather cord necklace with a dark cross. Justin’s good at picking up on what Tom likes. After descending Justin saunters up to and around the couch with a cocky swagger. God knows, the rebellious, self-assured punk act is doing it for Tom. Sam had it down to an art, knowing how to switch between modes to stay in control of the situation at all times. Justin’s been rebellious and defiant, but not very self-assured. His self assurance has grown with every time he’s managed to steal Tom’s attention away from John, and with every time he’s taken a chance and it’s paid off. 

The young man that stops in front of Tom now has no doubt as to whether he’ll be turned away or not, and it shows. Justin smirks down at him, lips closed and eyelids lowered, hitching his hips just so. He’s comprised of sex-appeal and cocksuredness. Tom is starting to get aroused by the sheer anticipation.

Justin slowly lowers himself down to his knees in front of Tom, keeping his chin tilted upward and his head leaned to the side, holding Tom’s gaze challengingly. He puts his hands on Tom’s knees and slowly separates them so he’ll fit between them, shuffling closer.

_Shit, boy. You’ve grown,_ Tom thinks. He loves this. His partner taking what he wants. Tom keeps quiet because Justin does. The lack of words racks up anticipation. Justin slowly reaches for his zipper, pops the button and pulls the zipper down. He pulls Tom’s underwear down enough to take out his cock, and starts stroking it to full hardness, keeping steady eye contact all the while. Tom hisses in appreciation. Justin has an up-to-no-good gleam in his eyes. He leans forward and opens his mouth, and light is coming out of it.

“ _Dear Lord, Jesus Christ almighty! Fuck!_ ” Tom curses. It might be one of the hottest things he’s seen in a long time. He has a piercing kink, yes, but he had no idea a bellbar with a led light on it would affect him this much. It turns the inside of Justin’s mouth to a reddish cave in the darkness and enhances to visual effect of what he’s doing. 

It only takes Justin a couple of brief minutes to get Tom to come, and Tom _tries_ not to. Tom hasn’t come that fast in _years_. Justin looks infuriatingly self satisfied about it. But for once it doesn’t matter, because the family is sleeping, the door’s locked and they’ve got _time_.

After that, Justin comes down to him almost every night. They fuck, make love, talk, and sleep together until Justin’s phone alarm goes off at 5 AM. One night Justin coaxes him out of the den to skinny dip in the pool. Justin can hold his breath for a blessedly long time, giving Tom his first underwater BJ.

They’re taking huge risks. Tom’s fairly certain Justin’s in love with him, yet the family interprets Justin’s lovestruck behaviour around Tom as hero worship, and the only one that gives them the occasional odd look is John. Risks or not, they’re never get caught.

* * *


	27. Jessica Maria Moore Rainsborough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jessi and Justin are best friends. If Tom knew how Justin influenced his daughter, maybe he wouldn't be so thrilled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter starts an hour or so before the previous chapter. :)

## August 2014

“Come on, Justin. It would only be one hour to commute.” Jessi bumps Justin’s shoulder encouragingly with her own, bends her neck and side eyes him from under thick lashes, trying for that little lopsided quirky smile that works on most guys. She knows he’s immune, but she tries anyway.

They’re sitting side by side on Justin’s bed, talking, and going through what they’re going to bring to college. Between them on the bed they’ve put her hair accessories, jewellery, and makeup, needlessly sifting through it for the sheer fun of it.

Justin snorts in amusement. “Yeah, no. I don’t own a car, so it’d be public transit for me. Then it’d be, like, almost two hours, changing bus three times, and cost 6 to 11,65$. That’s four hours commuting and 22$ every day. I’m gonna be swimming several times a week, then studies. I’d be fucked.” He picks a hair clip with a butterfly with pink zircons on it, combs her hair away from her ear with his fingers, then fixates it with the clip.

“But you thought about it?” Jessi asks and picks up another hair clip, this one with a red bow. She puts it on him, making him smile and reach for the hand mirror to admire himself. He’s a bit strange like that. It’s one of the things she loves about him, that he’s strange and unapologetic about it. Like the things he has on the walls. She’s sitting closest to the wall, and just by her elbow there's a picture of a bearded ‘lady’ cut out of a glossy magazine. It’s bordering on too weird. There are other clippings just like it, along with cartoons, bands, pictures of male hair models, inspiring quotes, poetry, and all sorts of weird and odd news clippings.

“Yeah, I thought about it. Course I did. It'd be cool to share an apartment with you. But unless your parents tell me I _have_ to, I don’t want to commute two to four hours every day. I want to do good in school. You know, to disprove that the way I look makes me stupid or something.” Justin tries on one of her emerald rings and looks at it. 

“They won’t. Mom has found an one bedroom apartment close to the university for you. She told me today when I asked. Apparently it was harder to find something for you than me.”

“They're really doing this? For real?” Justin asks and quirks a curious eyebrow at her. 

“Yeah, they are. When my parents say something, they stand for it. And they love you. Hey, why have you got this?” Jessi asks, changing the topic and gently touching the picture of the bearded lady. 

“I think she's beautiful,” Justin says with an arrogant tilt to his chin, looking down at the necklace in his hand― _not_ at her.

Jessi giggles. “Who is it?”

“Conchita Wurst. She won the Eurovision Song Contest this year.”

“Oh. So it's an European thing,” Jessi says like it's explaining everything. “You know it's a _he_ , right?”

Justin turns his head towards her. “So _he’s_ beautiful,” he says, defiance in every inch of his posture, but his cheeks are flushing a deep red.

Jessi giggles again, looks at him while applying lip gloss to her lips, then asks “Are you gay?” with a tendril of excitement. She’s never met anybody that's gay.

“No,” Justin answers, but he’s guarded now, in a way that gives Jessi pause. She thinks of what her celebrity crush had done and said in a live interview a couple of months ago. 

“Bi?” she asks. 

Justin flushes even redder. Sitting this close, their sides pressed together, she can _feel_ him getting hotter. “So what if I am?” he challenges.

“That’s so cool!” Jessi exclaims with a grin, startling Justin to a bemused chuckle. “You ever been with a guy?”

Justin pokes the top of his bellbar out of his mouth to hitch against his teeth, smiles in embarrassment and nods, looking down on his lap. 

“Really? What's it like? Did you do it to him or him to you?”

“Um… I’ve done both? I'm a verse.”

“A verse?”

“Versatile. Means I'm both… um. Both a top and a bottom. God, this is embarrassing,” Justin says and bites his lip, smiling. He’s currently not wearing a lip ring. He does most of the time, which Jessi thinks is great. She had noticed him the first day he came to school because of his piercings and tattoos. She thinks they're rad. Piercings and tattoos is one of the hottest things she knows. She'd wanted to talk to him, but he wasn’t very approachable. It hadn't helped that she thought he was hot as hell, despite being a bit to the shorter side. She prefers tall guys―the taller, the better. She’s tall for a girl. Taller than her mom, but not as tall as her dad. She’s about 1.5 inches shorter than dad, and about the same difference, but taller than Justin. Nevertheless she'd convinced herself she had a crush on him. Not until Noah befriended him had she dared talk to him. They’d just clicked, but the romantic attraction had fizzled away to who knows where. Honestly, it’s a good thing, because in him she’d found a friend she felt like she could talk with anything about.

“Nah. Don’t be embarrassed. People like what they like, right? What’s it like? Doesn’t it hurt?”

“The first times, it did. We didn't know what the hell we were doing, you know? We just wanted to fuck. T’was supposed to feel good, right? Otherwise, why would others do it? And after making out and humping each other for long enough, you’re too horny to care.” Justin picks up a hair clip with two beaded strings attached, they’re tipped with the end of peacock feathers. He strokes the feathers against the back of his hand. “We went slow and only had spit and moisturizing cream as lube. It hurt, but once the tempo got upped, it felt good.”

“But isn’t it supposed to feel really good? With the prostate and all that? Isn’t it, like your clitoris, or something?”

Justin snorts in amusement. Smiling he puts the hairclip down and looks at her with eyes narrowed in entertainment. “My lack of a clitoris stops me from doing that comparison. But like I said, we didn’t know what the hell we were doing. Didn’t hit the jackpot those times.” He takes the lip gloss from her hand and unscrews the cork, inspecting the applier. It’s the kind of gloss that makes the lips look all wet. He puts down the container and picks up the hand mirror, then applies lip gloss to his lips with great interest. He inspects his work and smacks his lips. “This shit is sticky.”

Jessi laughs. “Yeah. You get used to it. Hey, can I put makeup on you? Like, for real? The whole shebang?” she asks and taps the picture of the bearded lady for emphasis.

Justin smirks at her. “Only if I can do yours afterwards.”

“Deal!” Jessi chirps elatedly and grabs her makeup kit, then flips over to straddle him. He laces his fingers together over his belly and relaxes. She doesn’t remember how the topic had come up, but sometime back in the beginning, she had told him she wasn’t interested in him as anything but a friend. Justin had looked relieved. After that they both had become much more relaxed with each other. He played at being her boyfriend at times, when guys couldn’t get into their heads that she wasn’t interested. They didn’t _do_ anything, Justin and she, except holding hands, hugging, and stuff like that. Some pretend flirtiness maybe. And Justin would if necessary puff himself up, tilt his chin in his cocky way and say ‘The fuck you doing with my girlfriend?’, and it was enough to scare guys off. She dries his lip gloss off him with a makeup remover pad, then begins to search for a good foundation for him. “So you ever hit jackpot, so to speak?” she asks, holding up two products to compare their colour to his skin.

Justin smiles lopsidedly, one of his cute dimples deepening. “Yeah… met a guy who knew what he was doing and, _oh boy_ , what a difference. It’s sex on fire. And if there’s one thing he taught me, it’s that there’s no such thing as too much lube. Porn doesn’t show you how often they re-apply that shit, but you need to have it.”

“Doesn’t poop get on the dick?” Jessi asks, scrunching up her face a bit. Honestly, she’s more curious than grossed out. Though it seems gross.

Justin shrugs. “Surprisingly, no. Not really. Sometimes the lube on the condom has traces of light brown slime on it. You’d think it’d get all covered with shit, but it doesn’t. More often than not, there’s nothing.” He closes his eyes as she begins to apply makeup. “Some guys clean themselves out with enemas an’ stuff, but I never have. It’s been spur of the moment sex anyway.”

“When did you know you were bi?”

“Um. After the first time I made out with a guy, I guess.”

“ _After?_ ”

“Yeah. Um. You know my parents sent me to an all boys boarding school because I knocked my girlfriend up. And they thought only having boys around me would stop me from, and I quote, ‘committing sins of the flesh’.” Justin sniggers. “I was real pissed about it. So when a guy named Steve came on to me, I figured, why not? Hadn’t even crossed my mind before. But when we kissed and stuff, it was a bit of an Aha-moment for me. I mean, I’d always thought some guys were cute, looked good and whatever. And when I think back on it, I might even had a crush on a boy named André back when I was twelve, without getting that I was crushing on him. Anyway, before Steve it hadn’t really been an option in my mind, but after that I looked at guys in another way and found that, _fuck yeah!_ ” He smirks and Jessi laughs.

“Did you fall in love with Steve?”

“No. I wasn’t really all that into him. I just did it to piss off my parents. Not I wanted them to know, but you know...”

“Yeah, I know.” Jessi focuses at what she’s doing while they’re talking. She wants to make him look pretty, like the Conchita guy, not like a ridiculous clown. “You prefer guys or girls?”

Justin shrugs a shoulder. “I’ve been in love with both. Doesn’t matter. It’s fifty-fifty I guess.”

“Tell me about the guy. You’ve told me about the girls.”

“Hey, it's not fair. I'm not all that comfortable talking about this. You have to tell me something about you now,” Justin protests, deflecting. Justin doesn’t like to talk about emotions. Jessi knows that. When they’d talked sex in the past he could be coaxed to tell details of the physical bits of it with relative ease. She and Noah would listen with fascination every time, both curious as hell. True, both she and Noah have had plenty of opportunities to lose their virginities too, if they’d wanted. But she wasn’t very interested in the local boys. And if she doesn’t want to kiss them, she hardly wants to do the do with them. Justin could talk about sex, violence, abuse, and bullying he’d been subjected to easily. But if you asked him how he felt about it he clammed up. For an instance, he told them about knocking up his girlfriend Emma, about stealing money, and the abortion (which kind of abhorred Jessi, but made Noah change his anti-abortion stance). But it had taken a long time for him to tell Jessi, in bits and pieces, how in love he’d been with Emma, and how utterly, devastatingly heartbroken he’d been when they’d been forcefully split up. So if he doesn’t want to talk about the guy he’s been in love with, Jessi isn’t going to push him. He’ll tell her if and when he’s ready to do so. 

Jessi giggles. “Sure, but I'm not as interesting as you. I haven’t done anything yet. What do you want to know? I mean, I’ve _kissed_ a lot of guys―“

Justin snorts in amusement. “ _A lot_ ,” he states skeptically, with shoulders shaking in silent laughter and dimples digging in deep in his cheeks.

“Okay, _four_ ,” Jessi says exasperatedly. “Stop laughing, you’re ruining the makeup.” Justin stills obediently, lips twitching in continued held back mirth. “But that’s my point. What can I tell you, that would be even half as interesting as anything you have to say?”

“You think you could ever be with a girl?” Justin asks.

“Sure. Why not? I don’t see myself falling in love with a girl, but I wouldn’t mind trying it out. In fact, I think I’m gonna try having a fling with a girl in college, just to know. Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, right?”

“You’re not afraid you’re gonna end up in Hell or whatever?”

Jessi blows a raspberry. “Not in the least. I mean, I believe in God and all that. But the Bible wasn’t written by him, nor by Jesus for that matter. All my grandparents say that without religion there’d be no morals, but I call bullshit.” She sits up straighter to recite the conclusion she’d come to as accurately as possible. “A moral act is one that decreases suffering, or betters life for a person or the society as a whole. It’s justice, freedom, and equality. An immoral act is one that causes suffering for people. A _sinful_ act, is one that violates religious doctrine no matter if it’s immoral or moral. So what passes for sinning doesn’t have anything to do with morals at all. You know that passage that Noah quoted by the dinner table with Nana and gramps? About the grace of God having appeared to all men?”

“Titus 2:11-12,” Justin says without missing a beat. Jessi’s never managed to learn the bible by heart like the rest of her family. She’s read it all. Of course she has. But there’s just too much political bullshit in it. She thinks the bible depicts the message of God about as accurate as the whispering game with thousands of participants. She thinks that her dad’s got it right. That it’s arrogant and vain to presume to know the will of God. That’s the greatest religious learning she has taken to her heart. The rest? Meh.

“Yeah. That,” Jessi says and goes back to what she was doing. “I interpret it as our innate ability to separate wrong from right. You know, our conscience? That we can feel what’s wrong or right in our hearts. And I personally can’t feel that there’s anything wrong with two people loving each other.”

“Same.” Justin’s quiet for a beat, thinking it over. His faith is very Jesus-centric, and clashes a lot with the old testament ideas that are so common around here. “So…” he says after a while. “Let’s say you did fall in love with a girl. Would you tell anybody? And who would you tell?”

“You, for starters. Then I’d tell Noah. Then mom I think―“

Justin opens his eyes and stares at her in surprise. “You’d tell _Noah_? With all his preachings about how wrong it is? Hell, you’ve been fighting with him on the subject since that day your dad’s parents came to dinner.”

“Yeah, I’d tell him. You don’t get how my little brother works, okay? He’s awesome. Really. But sometimes he is too concrete about abstract subjects. Right now, to him, gays are a bunch of vulgar, half naked men parading through the streets en masse, waving rainbow flags around. And when they’re not, they’re clad in leather and going to sex clubs where they can’t keep their hands to themselves, like in Police Academy. You know? Blue Oyster Club?” Justin nods. “The day he actually gets to know somebody that doesn’t fit that stereotype, he’ll change his stance on the matter. I’m like, a 1000% sure of that.”

“Uh- _huh_ ,” Justin says skeptically. “Jessi, you can’t tell him about me, okay? You’ve got to promise that.”

“You should tell him yourself.”

“No. Jessi, he _can’t know_. Promise you won’t tell him. _Promise_.”

“Alright. I promise. But he’d never judge you for it. I just know he wouldn’t.”

“Whatever,” Justin says, unconvinced, and closes his eyes again. “Who else would you tell?”

“Around here? Maybe dad too.”

“Only maybe?”

“Yeah. I dunno. I don’t think he’d be as understanding.”

Justin chuckles. “Honestly, I think he’d be the least judgemental in your family. He’s not been stuck in this little shit town. He’s been out meeting all kinds of people.”

“Yeah… maybe. I just don’t want to disappoint him, you know?”

Justin hums noncommittally and falls silent again while Jessi attaches fake eyelashes to his eyes. His face is perfect for makeup. Lips full and symmetrical, with a distinct, heart shaped Cupid’s bow. His brows… Jessi’s pretty sure he picks them to keep them in the perfect birdwing shape they have. But if he does, he doesn’t over do it. They look natural enough. His cheekbones are marked and his face somewhere between square and oval. Sometimes Jessi thinks it’s a shame they didn’t fall in love, since he ticks off about every one of her preferences except height. He’s smart, athletic, nice, chivalrous, cocky and shy all at once, has a darker, mysterious side, has tattoos and piercings, and dimples to die for. But then again, having him as a best friend comes with its own set of perks.

“You nervous about leaving for college?” he asks suddenly.

“Are you kidding me? I’m scared out of my wits about it. Why do you think I’m trying to convince you to live with me, despite the commute?”

Justin smiles. “What are you scared about?”

“ _Everything_. I mean, I’m nothing special. I have no special talents except being pretty and having a contagious smile.” Jessi snorts self depreciatingly. “I don’t know what I want to do with my life, except I don’t want to be stuck here, becoming some pious housewife to a man who is convinced my place is beneath him. I’m not like Noah. He wants to become a priest, a therapist, or a surgeon. Or maybe he wants to be a charity organiser. He keeps changing his mind about those things all the time. But at least he’s sure about wanting to help people. I’m just gonna study to become a PA because I can’t find something to be passionate about.”

“It’d be kinda cool if he became a surgeon and you a PA.”

“Hah. Yeah. We could work together in the same hospital. I’d like that, but I doubt he’s gonna choose to become a surgeon. He’s squeamish about blood and violence.”

“Really? I’ve never seen any indications of that.”

“No. He doesn’t show it anymore like he did as a kid. You’ll see him being the first to try to stop a bleeding, and break up a fight. You won’t see his freakout afterwards. He gets all shaky and has nightmares. He hates hockey because of the violence in the sport. When we were kids he’d always cry when dad ended up in an altercation on the ice. I remember one time dad stood bent over, holding his hands on his knees, and blood kept dripping from his nose and mouth onto the ice. But when he straightened up he was grinning. He fistbumped a teammate, got his hair ruffled by another, and skated off the ice with a satisfied smirk on his lips, blood all over his face. He looked really scary. I was standing up, screaming at the TV, cheering for dad during the fight, while Noah sat with his hand pressed over his mouth, eyes wide and horrified, curled in the corner. I think that was the last time Noah watched any of dad’s games live on TV. After that he wanted me to watch it first and warn him about fights. I think he was thirteen? He’s seen every one of dad’s games, but he’s needed mental preparation. I doubt he’d handle being a doctor very well.”

“You don’t have a problem with the violence in the game?”

“Nah. I love hockey. About as much as dad does, I think. I want to date a hockey player like dad. _Don’t_ tell my parents that! They’ll tell me why hockey players are unsuitable, both of them giving different reasons.”

Justin sniggers. “I wouldn’t mind dating a hockey player like your dad either. You’ve got any favourites in the ChHL?”

“Yeah. Jared Boll, even if he’s a bit old. And Erik Gudbranson.”

“I see a pattern. Longish brown hair and tall as fuck,” Justin says with a chuckle.

“Yeah. But if you want to see my real crush, you’ll have to look at Division 1.”

“I’m not familiar with players in the lower divisions.”

“Hold on, I’ll show you.” She puts down the makeup and reaches for Justin’s laptop on the nightstand beside them. Justin watches curiously while she finds the clip on YouTube, where the hottest guy on the face of the Earth, kisses a guy from the opposing team. She turns the laptop around so Justin can see better and points at the screen. “These two are brothers, and that’s a guy from the opposing team. They’re from the same area and have just played a derby,” she explains. “Now watch, because this is awesome.” She hits play and watches Justin while he looks at the clip. His eyebrows shoot up when the kiss comes.

_“Um. You just kissed him.”… “I did that, yeah.”… “No offense meant, but I didn’t know you were gay?”... “None taken. And I’m not…” But you just…”... “The word you’re searching for is bisexual. It means you’re attracted to both men and women. Which I am.”_

Justin laughs in delight. “Holy fuck! This guy’s my hero! Way to put bisexuality on the map! Zero fucks given! That was awesome!”

“I know, right?” Jessi says with an equally delighted grin. “He’s so cool. I’m crushing so hard on him it’s stupid. He’s got a tattoo on his pec too. Both the Winchester brothers do. They’re waiting for the ban to be lifted to get to play in the playoffs. I think they’re going to get bumped up to the ChHL. I hope the guy from the opposing team didn’t get beat up by his brother for that move.”

Justin plays the clip again and shakes his head, still smiling. “Nu-uh. Don’t think so. Hey, why don’t you have a poster of this guy in your room if you’re so into him?” he asks and puts the laptop away.

“Because it’d worry my parents, I think. Mom especially. I think it’s because dad cheated on her when he was away. Anyway, I’ve got my phone and computer, so I can look at him whenever I want. Did you see his dimples? They’re as gorgeous as yours.”

Justin snorts, but he still looks smug about the compliment.

“So what do you think? He’s hot, right? Hot to the point of rudeness,” she says and resumes her previous activity of dollying up Justin.

“I guess. I like his attitude more than his looks. His brother is more my type.”

“What type is that?”

“I like blondes. Anyway, we were talking about why you’re scared of leaving for college,” Justin says, resolutely pushing them back on track.

“Yeah. It’s just that, I’m so mediocre and normalcore. I’ve been surrounded by exceptional people all my life. Dad and his hockey. Mom. Like now. She’s down in the poor neighbourhoods every day, nursing sick people back to health. Noah. Seriously, I pale in comparison with him, he’s got so much _drive_. He won’t turn eighteen until December, and already he’s planned and executed a _major_ charity project, managing to make it go from idea to up and running in a week. You, getting yourself into University by working your ass off all summer, then swimming like a minor god while sick. I’m just an accessory. What if I don’t find friends? What if I fail miserably? What if make my parents disappointed? I _hate_ that.”

Justin chuckles. “First off, making friends _is_ a talent of yours. Second of all, you got into Stanford medicine while studying leisurely. You never even got stressed out about school. You were so confident that you applied to _one_ college, no backup plan. And you got in. That’s not being mediocre. They’re not going to be disappointed in you. You’re just comparing yourself to the wrong people.”

“I just wished I had a passion, or a talent, you know? But almost anything I do, I get tired off. Same with guys. I crush on them, but when they show themselves interested, I tire of them. I hope there are interesting guys over at Stanford. But if there is, they’ll think I’m some inexperienced, religious nutjob from a conservative town, and they won’t be interested. It’s stupid. Lose your virginity before marriage over here, and they call you an unmarriageable whore. In the rest of the world, they mock you for not having had sex at the age of nineteen. What’s all the fuss about anyway?”

Justin smirks and looks at her. His eyes are nothing short of striking now that she’s finished the eye makeup. A sooty look with green to highlight his eye colour. “It’s not sweet and romantic as it’s portrayed. It’s messy, and it can be awkward as fuck. But _man_ , it’s fucking great when it’s good. You know what I think you should do?”

Jessi shakes her head.

“You should find an older guy with some experience, and get it over with. If you wait until you find someone you’re in love with, it’ll just add a ton of pressure. And if you pick just anyone, it may end up being really crappy. Especially if the guy’s in our age. No, you want someone who’s older. Old enough to no longer find it awkward at all, who’s good at what he does, and best of all, he should be old enough to feel a bit wow-ed by someone your age wanting to be with him.”

“Like who? Martin’s brother?”

“No. He’s only twenty four. He wouldn’t be impressed by having a nineteen year old wanting him. I was thinking more like a man. A real man.”

Jessi gives him a troubled look. “Like who?”

“I dunno,” Justin says, looking like he’s up to no good. “How about John?”

“ _What?_ John? Daddy’s John? John Powell?”

“Mmmhm,” Justin says, pleased look on his face.

Jessi lets out a startled laugh and shakes her head. “You’re _insane_! He’s as old as my dad, for crying out loud! Nevermind that he’s dad’s best friend.”

“Come on, Jessi. Think about it. He’s not _that_ old. And he’s hot. Unlike if you’d pick anyone around our age, the risk of anyone around here finding out is minimal. I won’t talk, and he certainly won’t, since he stands to lose too much. He’d be both flattered and treat you with respect, but wouldn’t mistake it for something serious. You’d get a fairly good first time compared to my disastrous one.”

“Oh my God. You’re mad. You think he’s hot?”

“He is. Not really my type, but he’s handsome. Wait. Look at this,” Justin says and reaches out for his nightstand drawer. He pulls it out and takes out a yearbook from 1994. He rifles through it to a certain page and turns it over so she can see. He points. It’s a picture of John when he’s their age. “See?”

“Where did you get this? Why do you have this?” Jessi says and takes the yearbook in her hands, looking with fascination at the picture of the young guy that definitely would have turned her head. It’s weird. She’s known John more or less all her life, but just as ‘one of the grownups’ and ‘Gemma’s dad’. Until her dad retired, she’d only exchanged brief, polite words with John. But now he hung out here all the time and proved to be a really cool guy, not the strict man she knew from church. Not only that, lately her parents got along better when John was around than they did without him. John is _way_ out of her age-limit. She can’t see herself being with anyone over the age of twenty five. But Justin’s got a point. John was hot when he was young.

“Borrowed it. Your dad and John were talking about memories from high school. I got curious of what they and your mom looked like back then. He’s hot, isn’t he?” Justin insists.

“Well yeah. But he doesn’t look like this anymore.”

“Only, he kinda does. Look at this picture real good, and think of it the next time you see him. The baby fat’s gone, he’s more built, and he has a few crows feet, but otherwise, he’s just as he was,” Justin coaxes.

Jessi thinks hard about it. And the more she does, the more she sees it. “Okay, so you’re right. But he’s still old enough to be my father. Would you be with someone that old?” she asks skeptically.

“Absolutely. Age doesn’t bother me the least.”

“Would you want to… you know, with him?”

Justin’s head makes a little movement, like as if he’s aborting a headshake. “Yeah, I wouldn’t say no if he came on to me. Even if he isn’t my type. But he’s too homophobic, like everyone in this shit town, to realise he’s bi.”

“You think he’s bi?”

“I’m positive,” Justin says, not looking all that happy about it. “But he’s too deep in denial to figure it out for himself. And if he ever does, he’ll have one hell of a gay-panic.”

Jessi giggles. “I think you’re full of shit. How do you know?”

“Gaydar,” he answers with a smug grin. “Anyway, you should do it with him.”

“Even if he wasn’t too old, you’re forgetting one thing,” Jessi says and puts the yearbook back where Justin took it.

“What?”

“He’s married. He would be cheating. I _hate_ cheating. You just don’t do that to your wife or girlfriend. I’d never be with a guy who I knew was cheating by being with me, no matter how hot he was.”

Justin makes a dissatisfied noise. “Yeah, yeah. It was just a suggestion.”

Jessi wonders if Justin wanted to have sex with John, and when he can’t, wanted to get it vicariously through her. She doesn’t ask about it. “I’m going to use mom’s maiden name when I go to college. I asked dad about it, and he says it’s okay. He didn’t get disappointed or sad, like I was afraid he would.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m tired of being known as ‘Thomas Rainsborough’s daughter’. I want to be known as _me_. So often when people hear my last name, all they want is to know about my dad. And anything I do after that is somehow added to _dad’s_ list of accomplishments. Like I’m just another _thing_ he managed to do right. Don’t get me wrong, I’m really proud of my dad, and I think he’s awesome. A total dweeb. But awesome too. It’s just that, I feel like I’m just part of the shadow he casts, you know?”

“No I don’t. If my parents could take their last name away from me, they would. They’re pretending I’m dead. They didn’t even look at me in church yesterday. I fucking _hate_ them. I don’t want them getting credit for _anything_ I do. I’m going to get rid of Robinson as my last name one way or another.”

Jessi sniggers. “I wonder what mom and Noah have told Reverend Bonahue for him to make the whole sermon about how we’re supposed to love and support our children.”

“Dude. I got the kick of the century when he stood up there and congratulated your parents and John for leading a stray lamb straight, and helping me get into college. _Jesus_! Did you see my parents then? Holy shit! I’m so glad I’d chosen to wear a suit and no piercings. But, man, I gotta tell you, I had no idea how influential your parents are around here.” Justin’s eyes are glowing excitedly. Jessi had felt the same vindictive glee as him. Their congregation has a talent for treating those who misstepped with utter contempt, as the Robinsons had been made aware yesterday. Jessi has no idea how Justin managed to keep a straight face until they were safely on their way back in the car. There, the whole family had celebrated, except for her dad. Sure, he’d smiled too, but he’d looked very troubled. He’d gone down in the den as soon as they came home. Mom had excused him by saying he was in pain. Jessi wasn’t too sure that was it, but more often than not, she didn’t get her dad.

Jessi grins, then turns a bit serious while painting Justin’s lips. “Yeah, but that can change in the blink of an eye. Before you got here, there was this other family, the Osmonds. They too carried a lot of weight around here. But then it got known that Carrie, the mother of the family, had been admitted to a psychiatric ward several times, and went to a psychiatrist weekly… and people just… they started disregarding everything they said. They went from respected and well regarded to pitied and disesteemed in a few weeks. That’s why we’re so afraid dad’s indiscretions will get known. I mean, it’s not as bad as madness, but it’d ruin mom’s reputation. _Her_ parents know, but they’re the only ones. I don’t get how Noah can want mom and dad to get divorced. It’d ruin the whole family. Also, when you marry, it’s for life. It’s _supposed_ to be for life! Sure, you go through some bumps in the road, but you solve those. You don’t cheat on each other, and you don’t fight all the time.”

“That’s bullshit. There are no happily ever afters. If you fall out of love and stick together, eventually you’ll start hating each other. That’s how it works. If it isn’t working you should get divorced and part while you’re still friends.”

Jessi snorts. “Let’s agree to disagree, okay?”

“Whatever.” Justin sniggers suddenly, getting his up-to-no-good twinkle in his eyes. “I guess that ruins my plan to marry you to steal your last name, huh?”

Jessi giggles. “I guess it does. It’s a shame you can’t legally adopt adults, or my parents could have adopted you. You’d be family for real. There. All done.” Jessi takes up the hand mirror and holds it up for him to see. He turns his head to look at all angles, makes a kissy face, smirks and winks at the mirror.

“I look fucking good. You’re a magician. Seriously, how’d you get my eyes to look so big?”

“Practise. You don’t think my bambi-eye routine comes naturally, do you?”

Justin chuckles. “Yeah it does. I’ve seen you use it coming straight from bed. Works like a charm every time.”

“Doesn’t work on you though.”

“That’s because I don’t believe in innocence. I know you’re up to no good when you go all doe eyed. Now, get off me so I can see myself in the full body mirror.”

Jessi climbs off him to stand on the floor. “You wanna try any of my dresses too?”

Justin shakes his head. “No thanks. It’d look stupid with my broad shoulders.”

“Are you… you’re not one of those who want to _be_ a girl, are you?” Jessi ask and tilts her head curiously as Justin stands to go admire himself in the mirror.

He quirks a smile, looking at himself. “No. I like my dick very much, thank you,” he says dryly. “And don’t tell anyone, but I think makeup and jewellry all kinds of rad. Kinda jealous of you girls who get to pick and choose like you do.” He repositions the hairclip with the bow and fixes his hair to get more volume. 

It’s really weird to look at him like that. It clashes. He’s so very much a _guy_. Broad swimmer’s shoulders, fit as hell, masculine in moves and posture. But the makeup he’s wearing is typical female and it kind of short circuits Jessi’s brain. Even more so because he’s not aiming to look like a girl. “You wear makeup and jewelry all the time,” she points out with a smile. Before she’d seen Justin she had been totally opposed to makeup on men. But then he started at their school, and _wow_. Opinion revised. Looking at him now, she’s slowly revising her opinion of men in female makeup too. He _does_ look good. Weird. But good. Maybe that’s why they use the word ‘queer’. She _wants_ to be accepting of things people do that she doesn’t get. She tries to. But more often than not her initial reaction is ‘WTF?’ and she has to think it over before acceptance settles and she can form a personal feeling of like or dislike. She has a first impression aversion to most strange things, even if it passed quickly enough. Justin is the opposite. Anytime they left town to go into the city he was drawn like a moth to a flame to anything or anyone outrageous or different. Frankly, she loved that about him. And how he’d pull her along to talk to weird people and see strange things. ‘My parents think I’m a lost lamb, but I’m not. I’m the lamb finding the new paths,’ he’d said once. It stuck with her. She wished she could find new paths too.

“Yeah, but it’s different. Those are things that are acceptable for a guy. If I’d walk out like this in this town I’d be shot on sight. Did you know that up until 2011 a guy could still be arrested for ‘impersonating a female’ in New York?”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Fucked up, huh? Hey, can you give me the red shirt and my ripped blue jeans from my wardrobe?” Justin asks and shimmies out of his clothes. Normally Jessi would be a bit embarrassed when a guy was in just his underwear in front of her, but Justin’s been dressed in swimming briefs for the greater part of the summer when he wasn’t studying, so seeing him in boxers didn’t make her uncomfortable. Nor him, apparently. And why should it? She’s spent hours tracing his tattoos with a blade of grass, a feather, or a soft makeup brush when they were talking, alone outside or in a room like now. She’d gotten to touch and tug experimentally on every single one of his piercings. He’d been highly amused by her inquisitive approach, answering all questions about whether it hurt to get them, how long they took to heal, if he was planning to get more. (Which he was. He wanted one in his other nipple, two more in his ear, and maybe one more in his eyebrow. He also wanted more tattoos. ‘Once you start, you’ll want more, Jessi. It’s addictive.’) The day he gave her free rein to explore his piercings had been ridiculously fun, emphasis on ridiculous. He’d been shaking with held back laughter, sticking his tongue out so she could inspect and touch the piercing. She’d been giggling like an idiot (Seriously. She had been touching his tongue with her fingers for God's sake!). And tugging on the nipple piercing… ‘Keep that up, Jess, and to hell with friendzones, I’m gonna pop a boner and want to use it.’ Yeah, it had been a fun day, both of them laughing ‘til they nearly cried.

He’d also seen her topless. By mistake. One time he stayed over she had left the bathroom door unlocked when she showered. Noah had complained he had one of his migraines oncoming and she knew that meant he might need to come in for advil. He never came, but Justin did. With excellent timing. She had just put her panties on and thrown her towel to land in the basket when he came in, stopped just inside the door and blinked in surprise. She’d been as surprised as he was, and had quickly covered her breasts with her arms. ‘Advil’s in the cabinet, yeah?’ he’d asked and looked her in the face. ‘Yes,’ she’d answered, cheeks aflame, and stunned at his offhanded attitude. ‘Good,’ he’d said and come into the bathroom, paying her no more heed as he headed to the bathroom cabinet. ‘Noah’s having one of his migraines. Figured he’d need them,’ he said, taking the advil and turning to leave. Jessi had been a bit miffed in her embarrassment, that he hadn’t reacted with anything more than surprise. Her heart had been hammering wildly when she heard himself call his name just as he was about to leave. He turned around with an eyebrow raised in question. ‘Do I look good?’ she’d asked, removed the arms from across her chest, and instead gripped her wrist behind her back. She was scared and nervous to be judged. Who knew how many girls he’d slept with and seen naked?

There are several ways of looking at someone, and Justin’s gaze had switched. Not into something leering and predatory, but he’d gone from ‘Oh, there’s Jessi. Wasn’t expecting that’, to giving her a slow onceover, soaking in every detail of her to the point that she was sure he’d memorised every birthmark and blemish she had. It had felt like hours before his eyes finally reached hers. He’d given her a slow smirk and nodded in appreciation. ‘Looking damned fine, Jess. _Damned_ fine. Thank you,” he’d said, then left her in a state between panic over being some attention seeking whore, and full of delighted giggles over his approval. Not to mention the thrill of having done something totally forbidden for a ‘nice girl’ like herself. She’d worried that he’d lose all respect for her after that, but he’d treated her as usual. And there was something about that last ‘Thank you,’ that appealed to her and made her feel good about herself despite showing herself off like a hussy. 

She hands him the clothes he asked for, along with a belt she thinks will fit well. He puts it on. “Hell yeah! I wish I could go out like this. Too bad there aren’t any clubs in the area. But I bet there are in SF.”

“Yeah. You’d go out like that? To a club?”

“If I didn’t think I’d get beat to a pulp, sure.”

“Cool.”

“Now it’s my turn to do you,” Justin says, turning around to face her. “But you gotta instruct me about this contouring thing,” he says and spins a finger around his face for emphasis.

Justin’s a diligent student, doing a good job out of putting her makeup on. They talk while he works. She’s sitting on the bed with her feet on the floor, and he sits on his desk chair, facing her. “You ever used a toy?” she asks suddenly.

“A toy? What? You mean, like a dildo?”

Jessi chortles. “I was thinking more like a fleshlight, but yeah, sure. A sex toy. Any kind.”

Justin shakes his head with a lopsided smile. “No. But I’d like to try. My first girlfriend, Emma, she had a vibrator. She’d let me watch her use it.”

“I don’t know if I could ever put something plastic inside of me,” Jessi muses.

“She didn’t put it in her. Hell, she didn’t even remove her panties. She’d just press it against here,” Justin holds his hand between her legs, just short of touching, “and she’d come within minutes. The vibrations did the work.” He removes his hand. Sometimes Jessi wishes he’d touch her forbidden places, instead of stopping. She’s grateful that he does stop. And the fact that he never cops a feel makes up a great part of why she trusts him. But that she trusts him so much is the very reason she wishes he’d touch her. So she could feel what it’s like, without worrying about her reputation or stuff like that.

“I’d like to try that.”

“I’d like to _see_ you try that,” Justin says with a teasing smirk.

Jessi slaps him on the arm in playful chastise. “No way!” she says laughingly. Well. Maybe a little ‘way’, if she doesn’t have to take her clothes off to try. But he doesn’t have to know she can be talked into it.

“Yeah, yeah. But I wouldn’t mind trying toys… Say, your parents ever go through your stuff? Inspect for forbidden items?”

“No. Never.”

“You don’t think they would, ever?”

“Not. Not unless they caught us doing drugs or something.”

Justin grins. “In that case… I’ve got some money stashed away. Let’’s go into the city tomorrow. I know where there’s a store that sells sex toys and stuff. Never been inside, but we can go there together. I’ll buy you a vibrator, and something for me too. You can tell me what it was like after you’ve tried it, and I’ll tell you.”

Jessi laughs in slightly horrified delight and a stirring of anticipation. This was Justin in a nutshell. When people debated whether the water was cold or not he’d jump straight into the pool to find out. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s do that. But I’ve got a bigger allowance than you that I've been saving up, so we can use my card. You don’t have to pay. Wanna ask Noah to come along too?” 

Justin shakes his head, grinning. “It’d be fun to bring him, but I’m not sure if all I’m gonna get is a fleshlight. Maybe something that goes where it isn’t _supposed_ to go, if you know what I mean?” He winks at her and she giggles.

“Okay. Oh my God. Are we actually doing it?”

“Mmhm. But it’ll be our secret. There. Done. How did I do?”

Jessi checks herself in the mirror. “You did great! Maybe you should become a makeup artist?”

“Hah! In that case I should keep my last name and be sure to mention my parents as often and loudly as possible. They’d be thrilled.” They share a laugh about it.

“I should put on one of my red dresses now, to match you. And can you do my hair?” Jessi chirps excitedly.

“Sure,” Justin agrees. It was another of their secrets, that Justin fixed her hair as often as not. Oh, the family had seen him do it a time or two, but they didn’t know it was a regular thing. He had real talent for styling hair. He’d fixed Noah’s hair too a couple of times, making her little brother look a lot tougher.

“But which one should I choose? The one with the lace, or the halter necked one? I need help with the zipper on that one, it tends to get stuck.”

“Try both on.”

“Alright.” She gets up and goes to the door, Justin following. When they open the door they can hear her dad and John laughing downstairs. Justin stops her, on guard, listening. He wouldn’t want to be caught wearing makeup.

“When did they come home?” Justin whispers.

Jessi shrugs, listening.

“ _I’ll get the beers and set up Netflix in the den_ ,” her dad says. “ _Could you fetch my charger? Grace borrowed it. It’s in the master bedroom._ ”

“ _Sure thing. You want help taking those stairs?_ ” John answers.

“ _Oh, piss off_ ,” her dad answers with a note of fond annoyance. John laughs in response.

It makes Jessi smile. Their banter spreads such a good mood in the family. Justin doesn’t look too happy though. “Jess, wanna pull a little harmless prank on John, for fun?” he asks.

“What?”

“This is what you’re going to do and say…” He leans in and whispers instructions.

* * *

John comes out of the master bedroom when Jessi sticks her head out of her room. “Hey, John, could you do me a favour?” she asks. It’s really weird looking at him now. The image she’s had of him like a generic adult present in her life superimposes with the image of the hot teenager he’d been, and the _man_ Justin painted him as.

“Sure. What do you need?” he answers with a friendly smile.

“I’ve got a date this week. And I was wondering, if you were a guy...“

John bursts out laughing like Justin said he would. ‘ _It’s an insult, but disarming. Don’t worry. I know him, he’ll think it’s funny. It’ll set up the dynamics straight away, telling him you don’t see him as an optional date. You know, child adult dynamics. He’ll be unprepared and unable to refuse lest he admit that **he** sees you as a potential sex partner._ ’ John nods to himself with an amused smile, eyes twinkling with self-deprecating mirth. “Alright. I’ll try to imagine it,” he says, voice filled with dry entertainment.

Jessi waves for him to come to her room. “I need help choosing a dress,” she says and goes back inside. John follows and stops in her doorway. He leans against the door post with a lopsided smile, crossing his arms in front of his chest, wearing a typical, indulgent, these-kids-and-their-antics expression.

She holds up the two dresses side by side on their hangers. “Which one should I choose?”

“They’re both red, Jessi…”

“Right! You need to see them on,” she says and throws the dresses on the bed. Hear heart is beating like mad for this part. She doesn’t think anyone but Justin could convince her to do something like this. Maybe Noah, but Noah _wouldn’t_. She trusts Justin though. She quickly pulls her top off and drops it on the floor. Then she shimmies out of her skirt. She doesn’t look at him, and is quick about it. ‘ _Undress like you would in front of a girl pal. Like it’s no big deal. Talk while you do it,_ ’ she hears Justin instruct in her head. “I want to look sexy. I mean, I want him to _want_ to have sex with me, but I don’t want him to think that he _can_ , you know?” she says and takes the lace dress off the bed. It was a risky buy. It needs a jacket not to look too, too… too slutty. She puts it on, wiggling while pulling on the tight garment, and turns towards John. He’s still smiling, but he no longer looks relaxed. His smile might have frozen in place and his eyes have widened a bit. “I don’t want him to think he can just fuck me and leave. I want him to think I’m someone worth going steady with.”

“If I was your father―“ he begins, but she cuts him off with a huff.

“If I wanted dad’s advice, I would've asked him. In that case he’d say that I should go in a chastity belt and a burqa. I want a _real_ opinion. It’s said you were a heartbreaker in high school, and dated a lot. You should know these things. And I’m a woman now, not a kid.”

John chuckles nervously. “Yes, okay. I doubt your dad would be quite that harsh, but okay.” He gives her a quick onceover. “That’s not the dress you’re looking for.”

“I don’t look sexy in it?” she asks, making her eyes round and biting her lip uncertainly.

John swallows nervously, still with that frozen smile. “You do. But, um, if I were ‘ _a guy_ ’,” he says, making air quotes, “and my date showed up dressed like that, I’d expect you― I mean _her_ , to put out.”

Jessi makes a dissatisfied noise and takes the dress off, not as hurriedly now. It’s really embarrassing to be standing in front of him just in her underwear. It shouldn't be such a big deal. Cotton and lace instead of swimwear. But somehow it made a world of difference. She takes the other dress and puts it on. “Could you help me zip up?” she asks and turns her back to John, lifting her hair out of the way and peering at him over her shoulder, arching her back slightly. 

John… he's got a weird smile on his lips, looking somewhere between unwilling and amused. He leans back and looks down the hall, then towards the stairs, before saying “Sure,” and coming into the room. 

He seems to hesitate before reaching out and grasping the zipper. The nature of the fabric makes it necessary to hold a hand on the bottom of the zipper to be able to zip up. It’s not until she feels the warmth of his hand gently settle below her tailbone that she fully grasps what level of tease Justin put her up to, because it feels _so_ intimate. ‘Don’t talk while he zips up. It will amp up the tension if you're quiet,’ Justin had said. He was certainly right about _that_ , because the quiet makes her super aware of how close they are and that he’s staring right down on the top of her panties. She's still looking at him even though he's looking down at what his hands are doing. His face has gone soft and calm, with the tiniest quirk of a smile. 

It’s so stupid. John had probably been with lots of girls before he got married. And he probably has sex with his wife all the time. Why would Justin think he'd be even remotely affected by this? Sure, she's pretty. Everyone says so even if she finds lots of fault with her looks. But John probably just sees her like a cute child, nothing more. It’s one thing when Justin says she's hot. They’re the same age.

John pulls up the zipper slowly, as not to hurt her. As usual it gets stuck in the small of her back. John bites his lip and steps a bit closer, making small tugs on the zipper. When it finally comes loose, John follows the zipper up with his other hand, keeping his fingers precisely under it to keep tension on it to avoid further hiccups. It causes an involuntary shiver. It’s all Justin’s fault. If he hadn’t shown her the picture of young John, and pointed him out as an option, she'd never be so _aware_ of his hands and what they could do. Like her head wasn’t full of boys already. No, he just had to go and make her aware that she's reached an age where _men_ would want her too. And if they would want her she had to consider them differently.

Not that she'd EVER do anything with a married man. She would never be part of hurting someone like her dad hurt her mom. But Justin assured her a little teasing and flirtiness was okay and flattering. In case of the guy getting riled up without getting any, he'd go home and give it to his wife instead. Jessi could justify _that_ to herself, even if this was questionable. She wasn’t too keen on the idea that someone might think of _her_ instead of the person they were making love to. But whatever. 

She just hadn’t expected the tease to go two ways. She’s too aware of the sound of his soft breathing, of the warmth of him, the faint scent of his cologne, of how broad his shoulders and chest is. There’s some comfort weight on him, but even she has noticed how he’d lost pounds this summer. These are not okay thoughts to have about dad’s best friend. 

John finishes and meets her gaze with a smile. He’s got kind eyes. She’s always thought so. Even when she was a kid and saw him at church, gatherings, or events at school. But he used to appear much sterner to her before he and her dad became so close. It’s in his straight posture, neatly combed hair, and the well tailored suits he always wears to work, church, and school events. Unless he comes straight from work, he isn’t wearing those here though. Today he’s wearing casual off-white dress pants and a thin baby blue, V-necked jumper that isn’t tight, but strains over his chest and shoulders regardless. His hair isn’t neat either. It’s ruffled either by wind or the shenanigans he and her dad got up to when they were together. No, when he came around here he still dressed very well, but never strict. 

“There you go,” he says and steps away from her.

“Thank you.” She turns around to face him. “How do I look?”

His eyes travel slowly up and down her body with a tiny smile. She can see appreciation in his face. “Classy. Gorgeous. This is the dress.”

“Sexy?”

He nods, averts his gaze and licks his lips in a nervous fashion. “Very. If I were ‘ _a guy_ ’,” he says amusedly, doing air quotes, not looking at her. “And my date looked like you do now, I'd want to bang her, but expect to be forced to do some serious courting to get the honour to do so.” He shakes his head and chuckles before looking back at her with a twinkle in his brown eyes. 

It’s a bit thrilling, luring him to look at her this way.

She gives him a dazzling smile. “Thank you. Which shoes should I use? I want to use my high heels, but I'll be much taller than him if I do, and I'm not sure he'll be comfortable with that.”

John’s face turns serious. “Sweetheart, if you seriously believe he'll dislike your height, cancel the date. You should never have to be anything less than you are. If a man is so insecure that he can't handle that, he's not worth your time.”

Jessi puts on the heels thrown into a corner of the room then walks up to him. “Look. I'm taller than you are with these on. That doesn’t bother you?”

He smiles, amused again. “Not in the least.”

“But if we're going dancing, it might be awkward…”

John throws a quick glance over his shoulder to the open door, licking his lips nervously again. Then he turns his attention to her, giving her another smile. He captures one of her hands in his and winds the other around her loosely, placing his hand just by the end of her ribs, lifting their joint hands, holding them by their shoulders in a dancing stance. He smirks, eyes twinkling boyishly, and begins to guide her in a dance despite the lack of music. He dances like her daddy does, giving support with the hand holding hers, and guiding with the press of his hand on her back. “Dancing isn’t a problem, Jessi. See?” She’s just a tad bit taller than him with these heels on. “A man deserving of your attention, he won't feel threatened by you, but be proud to have you by his side. He'll only have eyes for you when you’re around, and won't treat you as trash. You should not have to fight for his attention. He'll raise your confidence, not destroy it it,” he says, looking at her with a lopsided smile, eyelids slightly lowered. 

Then she gets it, what Justin means with ‘too experienced to be awkward’. John’s still too old, and too _married_ (the last one can't be overcome) for her to seriously considering doing anything with him. But if he'd met him somewhere, not knowing his age, she might be swept off her feet. (No. He still looks to be closer to 40. But if he was, like, 28. Maximum 30. Then perhaps…) It’s the self-assertive way he just swooped her in for a dance, music be damned. It's in the way he's looking at her now. She can’t put her finger on what it is in his gaze and expression, but he's managing the confidence-raising part he just talked about. She smiles broadly at him. 

 

John casts a glance at the doorway again. “Can I give you a piece of advice your parents would disapprove of me giving?” he asks. 

“Please _do_ ,” Jessi urges.

John puts his cheek close to hers and lowers his voice, mouth close to her ear. “What I just said, goes for one night stands too. Even if all you’re after is a fuck, and both of you know it, you shouldn’t lower your standards. And use condoms. Always.”

Jessi chortles and turns her head to look at him with shocked delight. Around here the no-sex-before-marriage is pushed by every adult. Her parents will grudgingly admit that it might happen outside of marriage, and that they, while they don’t condone of it, would not punish it. (Like seeing disappointment in her dad’s eyes wouldn’t be punishment enough. Pfft.)

John gives her a wink and lets go of her. “I need to get back now or Tom will wonder where the hell I went. Good luck on the date,” he says and starts backing away.

“Thank you, Mr.Powell,” she says, restoring boundaries by using his last name.

“My pleasure, Jessi,” he says, then he leaves her room. She hears his footsteps descend the stairs hurriedly.

“Good improv with the dancing,” Justin says, stepping out of the closet where he’d been hiding to watch the encounter. He looks like a cat with a bowl of cream, content and smug.

“Oh yeah, that wasn’t planned. We need to buy more shoes tomorrow. I want more _high_ high heels. Not all these small ones I have.”

Justin chuckles. “I always thought you didn’t care when Gunnar and his gang tells you that women should be smaller than their men. I had a good laugh at you telling ‘em it would be much easier if they weren’t all midgets.”

Jessi grins. “Oh yeah. They got really pissy about it. But no, I admit, it gets to me sometimes. You’re never bothered by my height?”

Justin comes to stand in front of her, staring straight at her cleavage. “Nope,” he says with a shit eating grin. 

Jessi laughs and punches him lightly on the shoulder. “Asshole,” she chides and kicks her high heels off.

“Yeah, yeah. You didn’t see his face when you undressed, right? You wanna?” he asks slyly, waving his phone in front of her face.

“You _filmed_ it? _Why_?”

“So you could see it too, of course.” 

“Of course I do! But you’ll delete it later, right?”

Justin makes a dismissive gesture. “Sure I will...,” he answers and hits play. Jessi takes the phone to look at the encounter, Justin shifting to stand beside her to watch along.

If she thought John had been unaffected by her undressing in front of him, she’d been wrong. It spawns elated butterflies to see his reaction, because apparently she isn’t the only one who makes a difference between swimwear and lingerie. Justin makes it so much funnier by adding commentary of what went on in John’s head. “Christ! What are you doi―?? Oh. Oh, fuck. Oh, my. Yes. Fuck. That’s nice. Quick! Look like a responsible adult, she’s looking at me!”

Jessi laughs in delight. “You think Cathy’s going to reap the benefits of this?”

“Sure, she will,” Justin assures her. “Sure, she will.”

* * *

A bit later they’re standing side by side in front of Justin’s full body mirror, holding an arm around each other's’ waists. Justin’s taking pictures of them. He switches the camera to take facial selfies and Jessi leans her head against his and smiles for the camera.

“I look like Adam Lambert,” Justin says with a pleased smile.

“Who’s that?”

“Singer,” Justin answers and points at a small collage on his wall. She’d missed it before. Justin has so much on his walls it drowns the individual pieces out. Like his walls are all big mood boards. She frees herself to go look. The man in the pictures wears makeup, but unlike the Conchita dude, he’s not trying to look like a woman. He’s dressed like a man, and in some of the pictures he has stubble. He doesn’t look like a bearded lady, but a guy with makeup. And it’s really quite pretty. Hot almost. A bit. Just like Justin. An hour ago she’d have found it weird and slightly off-putting. But now she just finds it cool. “My parents heard me listening to him on the radio when I was fourteen,” Justin explains. “They forbade me to listening to such _inappropriate_ music, so I went out and bought the album.”

Jessi giggles. “If there’s anyone listening to inappropriate music in this family, it’s dad. Some of the stuff he plays, I don’t get at all.”

“That’s because he’s a lyric listener, and you listen to the melodies.” Justin snorts in amusement. “My parents would also have prohibited the stuff Noah listens to, and that shit is mostly instrumental.”

Jessi shakes her head with a smile. Noah listened to techno, house, and those kinds of genres. “You still got the album?” she asks and taps the collage of the Lambert guy.

“Nah. They found it and destroyed it. But it’s on spotify. We can listen to it later if you want. I need a smoke. You coming?”

Jessi campaigns for everyone around her to stop smoking. It’s an uphill battle. But she’ll still join him outside. A little smoke doesn’t perturb her from good company. She’s beginning to like the smell of cigarette smoke. Even find it comforting when she can smell it linger on clothes. Maybe it’s because Justin, Noah, and her dad smokes. 

“Sure.”

Justin goes to his desk, takes a pack of smokes and a lighter out of a drawer, pockets them and opens the window. At first Jessi thinks he’s about to smoke in the room, and is about to scold him. But then he climbs up on the desk, grabs the top of the window frame and looks back at her. “You coming or not?” he asks with a sassy smirk and swings himself outside and to the side.

Jessi’s heart starts racing in fear of him falling. She rushes to the window and crawls up on the desk, sticking her head out of the window. Justin’s holding on to the window frame and is reaching his furthest leg towards the patio roof. He grabs the frame of the bathroom window above it and lets go of his own window frame. And like that, he’s standing on the patio roof, looking back at her, beckoning for her to come.

She doesn’t hesitate. Hitching her tight dress up above her panties she climbs outside. It’s scary while she’s reaching her foot and hand out. It would be a dangerous fall. But then she’s got the patio roof under her foot and her hand on the bathroom window frame, lets go of her other holds and _bam_ , she’s over on the other side. Justin gives her a pleased smile and turns to walk along the patio roof, closest to the wall. She follows with a pounding heart. He stops where the house roof slopes down over the patio roof, reaching him to his chest. He grabs a hold of the roof and heaves himself up. Then he crawls himself up to the flat part up on the middle of the house. Jessi follows suite with slightly less agility but greater ease due to her height advantage. Her knees and fingers gets a bit scraped by the rough texture of the roof, but it’s too exciting for her to care.

Justin’s sitting upright facing the pool side of the house, flipping his tongue piercing out to hitch against his self-satisfied, smirking lips. There’s a ashtray and already on the roof beside him. It’s one of those with a spinning lid, but not the type her mom had bought. He must have bought it himself. He takes his smokes and lighter out of the pocket while she sits down beside him and pulls down her tight dress again. It’s one thing exposing your underwear while climbing, but she may as well adhere to decency while sitting. Justin offers her a cigarette like he always does when he’s about to smoke. She rolls her eyes and gives him a dry look. He shrugs and takes it for himself, lights it and takes a drag.

As much as she wants people around her to stop smoking due to the health hazards, she nevertheless appreciates the gesture. It’s not that he insists that she should smoke, it’s more like he keeps the door open for her to change her mind, should she ever want to. When he’s got candy, food, or alcohol, he’ll offer it to her first, sharing with her. She thinks it’s sweet, even when he offers bad things, like now.

“What if we’re seen?”

Justin lets out a puff of smoke before answering. “Nah. Nobody looks at the roof. As long as we don’t pass the attic window while Grace is there, it’s cool. I come here all the time. During night the stars are awesome. Also, if you sit over there, by the chimney, you can see into Paul’s bedroom. You know how often he jerks off to lesbian bondage porn? I’ve got pictures if you wanna see.”

Jessi laughs. “ _No_! I don’t want to see. Why would you take pictures of that?”

“Blackmail material. He also comes out to water his roses around midnight or two AM, depending on if we’re still out and about over on this side on the fence. I have pics of that too.” 

“I knew he was breaking the watering ban.”

“Obviously.” Justin takes another deep drag on the cigarette.

“Why would you want to blackmail Paul?”

Justin shakes his head, letting smoke out upward. “I don’t. It’s a safeguard, in case I need to buy his silence to protect myself or someone else. Paul wouldn’t hesitate a minute to raise the hue and cry if he could catch us doing something he’d consider bad. But he’d think twice about it if he’d run the risk of getting his own reputation ruined in the process.”

“You’re a menace,” Jessi says fondly.

“You can’t trust adults, Jess. You need to be one step ahead.”

“God, you’re so cynical. Not all adults are assholes.”

Justin shrugs. “Maybe you’re right. I have issues. Whatever. I’d rather safeguard against treachery _before_ it happens than put blind trust in somebody and have it broken. Speaking of… what’s the deal, really? With your parents sending me to college I mean. What is your mom after? I can see why your dad would do it, but not your mom.”

“They’re not after anything, Justin. It’s just how they are. What do you mean, why dad does it?”

Justin looks at her, taking another drag on his cigarette. He opens his mouth to answer but shuts it when they hear voices coming from below. 

“... _that would be the only good thing about this heatwave. Dead things don’t grow_ ,” her dad says, coming into view below, gesturing at the brown grass in the yard. John comes after him and laughs as if her dad just said the funniest thing ever. They’re total dorks. It makes Jessi smile. They head for the swingset, and stop on the way there to light cigarettes of their own, John lighting her dad’s cigarette. When they look at each other they’re grinning. It’s like they’ve been best friends all their lives. She wonders if they keep as many secrets as Justin and she does.

“Your dad could be sending me to college since he grew up a lot like me. Except he tried to be what his parents wanted whereas I’ve just tried to be me,” Justin says quietly, not to be heard down on the ground where her dad and John starts walking again, their conversation just a muted murmur now.

Jessi is distracted from trying to hear them because of Justin’s statement. She turns her head to look at him. He’s watching her dad and John with an expressionless face. “No he didn’t. My grandparents are really sweet. Who told you that?”

He side eyes her with an eyebrow arched skeptically. “Your dad. And your mom, when we went to get my stuff. She said she’d watched them treat your dad like shit all the time and it pissed her off, even more so when she saw my parents do the same to me.”

Jessi shakes her head. “No. No, the argument between dad and his parents is something new,” she denies, the knot in her stomach forming. She doesn't think she’ll ever get used to the gnawing knot in her belly. She started getting that sensation when the arguments between her parents started. When she started feeling like she had to tiptoe around and guard her tongue not to get caught in the crossfire or set something off. It was better (slightly) between her parents now, but instead she was stuck in the middle of her dad and her grandparents. 

“It’s not, Jess. It’s just taken your dad this long to reach his rebellious phase, that I reached when I was a toddler. Maybe you’ve been so used to see your dad bite his tongue and keep up appearance that you didn’t think of it. Just because your grandparents are nice to you, doesn’t mean they’re nice to your dad. Think about it. My parents were nice to you too, right? It’s alright, Jess. Abuse is always harder to spot when you’ve grown up seeing it, when it’s normalised.”

Jessi shakes her head again. She doesn’t want to hear it. “Abuse is such a strong word. I’ve never heard of them beating him up or anything. Not like your parents.” This thing, it’s shaking her world in its core. Just like her parents fighting. It’s like discovering your parachute is full of holes. _After_ you’ve jumped. She’d be angry at Justin, and call him a liar, if it wasn’t for the absolutely horrible things her grandparents had said about her dad since he slammed the door in their face that day. Insidious things. Critique that’s undeserved on every level. She’d told them to shut up about it, or she’d stop talking to them like Noah had. They'd stop, but only temporary. Soon enough they'd sneak in nasty little comments. Comparisons, about how Jessi was better than her dad one way or another. It would _seem_ nice enough, if one chose to hear the compliments. But her parents had always pushed that if you had to make other people seem small, to appear great yourself, then you weren’t very good to begin with. And she loves and admires her dad. (Even if he’s a pain in the butt at times. _All_ parents are. It’s their job.) She doesn’t want to hear anyone speak badly about him. Nor of her grandparents either, for that matter.

“Yeah, but a rose by any other name, and all that,” Justin says, referencing Shakespeare, keeping his eyes glued to her dad and John at the swingset, where they're bumping each other's swings while they talk. They’re always playing. Jessi thinks it’s awesome when grownups play. Dorks. It makes it feel less scary to grow up. “Your dad’s parents also opened his mail, raided his room, dictated who he was allowed to be friends with, criticised him no matter how well he did. You may call it discipline if you want, but it’s emotional abuse.” He takes another drag on the cigarette, holds it in for a while, then lets the smoke sift out slowly, watching it rise in the air.

“I just want things to go back to how it used to be, when everyone got along. I don’t want to have to choose between people I love.”

“As far as they're concerned, you already have,” Justin says. He pulls up his phone and takes a picture of John grabbing her dad’s swing, pulling it to him and leaning in real close to say something that makes them both giggle. John gives her dad’s cheek a couple of light slap-pats and lets go of the swing. 

Jessi snatches the phone from Justin to look at the last picture taken. “What do you mean?” she asks. The picture is like those her mom is so good at taking―capturing happy moments―but too far away. It almost looks like John is cupping her dad’s cheek instead of slapping it, their foreheads nearly touching. It’s not a great pic from this angle and distance, but when you zoom in you can see how boyishly happy they look. Too bad about the distance. She hands the phone back. 

“To your grandparents it'd seem like you chose to side with your dad, since you defend your dad when they talk about him. And to him, it would seem like you side with them, since you still hang out with them. But you can chill, because your dad loves you anyway.” Justin pockets his phone again and takes another drag on the cigarette. 

Jessi lays down on the roof, looking at the blue sky and the few, wispy clouds drifting past. “I don’t wanna be somebody you love ‘ _anyway_ ’. God, I don’t know how many times I’ve seen my parents get disappointed in me, then given me that closelipped smile, saying ‘It’s okay. We’re proud of you anyway.’ It’s like, I don’t have any high expectations to live up to, because all that’s expected of me is to be a ‘good girl’. I don’t want them to be proud of me for just existing, you know? Like, I try to excel and be great at things, to stand out. But I _can’t_ , because I’m not passionate about anything. I’m one in a dozen whatever I do. I’m a cliché. I’m gonna go to college, where I’ll do a little experimenting and come to the conclusion I’m not bi, I’ll party a bit, but still take my degree. Then I’m gonna meet a guy, get pregnant, and end up as a housewife, being good for nothing more than making him look good. I _so_ don’t want any of that. I want to be someone you remember.”

Justin chuckles, squishes his cigarette on the ashtray and pushes the lid button to make the butt disappear into the tray, then he lays down beside her. He lies on his side, supporting his head with his hand. “First off, Jess. You’ve got more passion than most people I’ve known. But you don’t have a particular interest to aim it at, so you aim it everywhere instead. And that’s fucking rad. You’ve got no chill whatsoever. You get excited, you get real fucking excited. You get mad, you get furious. You get sad, the world is ending. That’s fucking passion too, you know.” Jessi looks at him while he talks. He’s smirking, eyes narrowed to amused slits, but full of fondness still. “And that’s what I like most about you, I think. That you get all riled up so easily. So what if you’re daddy’s little rich girl? Don’t hold your parents success against them. But if you don’t wanna become a cliché, don’t. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but you can choose that for yourself.”

“You think I should stop seeing my grandparents?” Jessi asks and reaches out to stroke her fingers along his eyebrow, touching the ring there. She’s flipping back and forth between the subjects that worries her. There’s always something putting her stomach in knots. She remembers when that started. She was fourteen and her parents had their first big fight one night. They never used to raise their voices towards each other, but then they did. Jessi hadn’t been able to hear what they were arguing about, but she remembered lying in bed, hardly daring to breathe. Then Noah had slunk inside her room and stopped just inside the door, looking at her with big, worried eyes. She’d raised her blanket, wordlessly telling him to come.

Her friends didn’t show much concern when she’d told them about the fight. Parents fight. It happens. Except it hadn’t, not before that. It had marked a start of something awful happening in her family. More fights, finding mom crying alone by her desk, coming into a room just to see her parents hastily don amicable masks, her dad slinking around with his tail between his legs, never knowing how her parents were going to act. And it had just kept escalating. She’d tried to make it stop. Tried being better, doing her best in school, doing more chores than she needed at home, made them presents and surprised them with things that would make them happy. Nothing worked. 

“No. I think you should suck up to your grandparents,” Justin says and closes his eyes, enjoying her gentle touch. He likes being petted and touched. She likes that he lets her, not expecting anything more than what she’s doing.

“Why?”

“Because to me they’re the bad guys, and they adore you. It might be good to have a mole, that can warn us if they’re about to do something that will harm your dad or me. Because they hate me.”

“They don’t _hate_ you. They just dislike how you look.”

Justin snorts. “They dislike my whole personality. You’re projecting your own perception of me on them. You’re a bit naive like that. I wish I could afford to be naive too.”

“I don’t want to be naive.”

“It’s a luxury for people who’ve never been personally let down and betrayed. Sooner or later, someone will ruthlessly obliterate that naivety. I just hope I’m not the one to do it.”

Jessi smiles. “You’d never hurt me.”

Justin opens his eyes, reaches out and strokes a strand of hair out of her forehead. He looks regretful and sad, despite a faint smile on those perfect, painted lips. “Not on purpose, no. But I’m trash. You might get hurt by stuff I do. Collateral damage, you know?”

“Pfft. You’re not trash, and I don’t believe it.”

Justin chuckles, smile widening to drill dimples into his cheeks. “That's the naivety talking. But I’ll try not to, okay?”

It was pretty recently, after her dad’s retirement, that she’d found out their fights had started because her dad cheated. Not once, but repeatedly. It was a hard pill to swallow. She adored her dad, always had. But she couldn’t really forgive him for doing that to them. How hard could it be to be faithful? There’d been too many times she’d seen mom cry when mom thought nobody would catch her. He’d caused so much pain. To all of them.

She sits up and looks towards the swings, just to find that her mom had joined John and her dad. She’s sitting across her dad’s lap, facing John, with her dad’s arms around her waist. She can’t hear what they’re saying, but all three of them are smiling. That’s a change since the Croatoan bit the household. John comes over all the time and her mom would occasionally join dad and him to chat for a while. They seem happy then. Not like the fake-happy her parents presents in church and gatherings. But like they like each other again.

“You think you could ever forgive if someone cheated on you?” Jessi asks.

Justin sits up, following her gaze. He lights another cigarette. “I guess. If my girlfriend cheated, I’d have to make myself so desirable she forgot about anyone else.”

“John said you shouldn’t have to fight for someone’s attention. That sounds right to me.”

Justin snorts. “Yeah, well. He’d be the one to talk,” Justin mutters. “If you want someone really bad, sometimes you have to take a little shit to get em, and keep them interested. Especially if they’re all starry eyed about someone else. If you’d ever been in love, you’d know what I’m talking about. As long as the highs are higher than the lows are low, I’d forgive. It’s worth it,” he says, a bit higher. “Sides, there’s a kick to be had when you get them to forget about your competition.”

Jessi hums noncommittally. “I don’t know. I don’t think I could ever forgive a cheater. I just don’t know…”

* * *

“ _...You’re being a mule headed moron, Tommy. Don’t do it! It’ll only get worse. Here, let me_ ,” John’s exasperated voice comes from the other room.

“ _I can do it myself, dammit! Let go of me!_ ” her dad answers annoyedly. Then lower, “ _Shit. Oh, shit. Alright…_ ”

“ _Thank you. Finally you’re sensible. I just want to help,_ ” John says, voice going somewhere between the exasperated tone and something softer.

“ _I don’t want to_ need _help._ ”

“ _I know that. But being a jackass about it doesn’t change the fact that you do. Now, hold on to me here, and…_ ” 

Their voices recedes as they descend to the den.

“I swear, those two bicker like an old married couple,” Noah says, shaking his head. Then he looks up from the sandwiches he’s making, gazing at their mom who’s making coffee, like he just realised that mom and dad are an old married couple. “Umm…”

Mom just chuckles. “Agreed. I think it’s funny.”

Jessi hates conflicts. At least her dad and John go back to being friends fairly straight away. But sometimes when they raise their voices and snap at each other, her stomach turns into a knot and it feels like she has worms crawling all over. She takes a sip of her tea and looks at their mom. “You _like it_ when they fight?”

“You could say that. I like that John calls Tom out on his bullshit. And Tom listens to him. Plus, when John’s around to scold him when he’s being an idiot, I don’t have to. It’s like having a temp.” Mom winks at her with a little smile. She’s in a good mood. That’s good.

“Me and Justin’s going to the city to buy shoes today. That’s alright, right?” Jessi asks.

“Sure. You can use Tom’s car if you want. He and John are going to some store today, and they’re taking the family car in case they buy something big.”

“Thanks mom.” Jessi turns to Noah. “Wanna come along?” she asks, despite Justin saying they shouldn’t bring him along to the sex store. She wants him along. She’s leaving soon and she’s angsting about no longer having Noah close. He might be _almost_ two years younger (born in December 96 whereas she was born in January 95) but she liked having him around.

Noah snorts and raises an eyebrow. “To buy shoes? No thanks,” he says dryly. “Besides, I’m joining mom to the trailer park today.”

“Alright.” It’s both a disappointment and a relief that he said no. Relief, because Justin wouldn’t be disappointed in her for bringing Noah despite him asking her not to. He’s out swimming laps like he always does in the mornings. She wonders how he does it. He should be tired. They’d lain on the roof until the stars came out yesterday. It was awesome. She wishes she’ll find a guy like him and fall in love. ‘ _No, Jess. Don’t wish for that. Guys like me, we’re trash. We’ll just screw you over even when we try not to. Guys like me have pantechnicons of emotional baggage. You should go for a guy_ without _truckloads of issues._ ’ Jessi thinks Justin’s full of shit, warning her. They were just friends, but still he’d sat and held her when it got chilly, watching stars with her. He wouldn’t be a bad boyfriend at all, being both romantic, respectful, and totally edgy and exciting. So she goes on wishing she’ll find someone like him no matter what he says. 

But above all, she wishes everything could go back to the way it was before, and everyone around her would just stop fighting all the time…

* * *


	28. Saying Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Justin gone, Tom spirals downward in his depression again...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so... I post this chapter and the next, together. Before you read any of them, I advise you to read the updated tags of this fic, if you're sensitive and have real triggers. Because the next chapter is an emotional shitstorm. The chapter names should be a warning too. (Don't worry though, I don't write Major Character Deaths.)
> 
> Also, my poor, beloved Beta, had to wait a day between this chapter and the next. I'm kind enough not to torture you with waiting. (Unless you read this the moment it gets out and have to wait an hour or so for the next)
> 
> And, honorable mentions: In this chapter something happens that maybe never will make sense to Tom. I'm tying up a loose thread. Hopefully I'll get to write the scene in VC that will make it make sense to you. But I'll give you a hint. It has to do with a text Tom sent earlier.

## August - September 2014

* * *

The last night before Justin and Jessi flies to California, Justin clings to Tom, lying in Tom’s bed in the den. “I don’t want to leave you,” he says.

Tom strokes his hair and kisses his temple. “I don’t want you gone either, but I want you to get away from here. Baby, it’s going to be alright. You’ll either meet someone who makes you forget all about me―“

Justin shakes his head in vehement denial. “No. Never.”

Tom smiles and continues as if Justin hadn’t interrupted him. “―or you’ll come home during breaks to steal a moment with me. It’ll work itself out. You’ll be fine, sweetheart.” He gives Justin a tender, chaste kiss on the mouth. Since Justin started coming to him at night, he’d started to make love to the young man too, being sweet and tender in a way he probably shouldn’t. It came naturally with falling asleep and waking up with someone.

Justin’s lip start wobbling, eyes filling with tears. There’s so much pain in them Tom feels his own eyes sting in response. “I love you, Mr.Rainsborough,” Justin says, voice barely above an unsteady whisper.

This is why he never should have let this happen. Should never have started up this relationship.

But what’s another lie is a sea of many?

“I love you too, Juss,” Tom says and kisses Justin, more thoroughly. It’s not true in the sense Justin means it and wants it. And it isn’t right. If there’d been anything right about their romance, Justin would have used Tom’s first name, not last name and title. But Tom hands the boy words he can twist into the lie he wants in his own head. No reason to shatter a breaking heart further.

Soon enough a truth would be revealed to end all lies.

Tom longs for the day. No matter how painful it will get, the day everyone knows, he’ll be free. He’s ready now.

“Can’t you come with me?” Justin whispers with a choked up voice.

“You know I can’t…” Tom answers sadly and dries a silent tear rolling down Justin’s cheek with his thumb.

Justin gives him a little dejected nod. 

There’s been too many breakups, too many goodbyes in Tom’s life. He’s guessing Justin has had his share of those too, with how his parents had uprooted him several times, trying to set him straight.

“Will you… will you come watch me compete?” Justin asks, sounding so very vulnerable.

“Nothing short of a bullet in the head could keep me away,” Tom answers with conviction and caresses Justin’s cheek, looking him in the eyes to hammer home how much he means it. That option too, would be a truth to end all lies.

* * *

The vaccine is released. Everybody who hasn’t been bit by the Croatoan already are recommended to get it. It’s distributed to high risk citizens as well as VIPs first, which causes an outrage. Fake vaccines are sold on the black market, scams are uncovered and broadcasted on the news. People are standing in long lines outside of places where the vaccines can be had. The demand is, as predicted, higher than the supply. Despite that, the distribution in America is reaching where it should fairly fast. Every town or city where an outbreak has occurred get it first. The distribution in Northern and Central Europe is just as swift, while Eastern Europe and Russia are having problems caused by politics concerning some war between Russia and Ukraine. Tom’s not paying much attention to that. His main concern is that Germany’s gotten the vaccine and has a well organised distribution. Stefan lives there after all. Tom’s not paying attention to how the virus is spreading in the rest of the world, nor if they get vaccine in Africa and Asia or not. Noah’s glued to the news, but Tom hasn’t got the energy to care. 

The vaccine isn’t free, and prices varies from state to state. Prices are vastly reduced for low income households, but all Tom reflects upon is that someone, somewhere, is making a killing. When the developer of the vaccine, Dr. Douglas Mabduw, appears in the news, Tom raises his glass and silently salutes the man, resenting him for not producing the vaccine for free. But he acquiesces that money needs to come from somewhere, and he’s sure the harried looking man must have worked around the clock to crack the virus. Besides, he works for a company. They’re the vultures. And vultures need to eat too.

Getting a tattoo that says “I survived the Croatoan”, or “Bit by the Croatoan”, or anything along those lines becomes a huge trend, and like every other stupid trend, it’s spread by internet. Because Tom thinks it’s stupid. Nobody tattooed “I survived the Swine Flu/Avian Influenza/SARS”. But The Croatoan had a ‘nice’ ring to it. The Black Death would probably have a similar effect in this day and age. On that subject, some people took it too far, carving it into their skin.

Tom had a scary incident with a stranger. It left him shaken for hours, without being able to put his finger on why.

It still happens every so often that he’s stopped by fans to take a picture, sign an autograph or just exchange a few words. Not often enough to be a nuisance, but it’s common enough for Tom not to make note of it when he’s approached by strangers. Here in town he’s recognised, and hardcore fans of the Ice Bears or even the Reapers will talk to him or do a double take wherever he is, even when they don’t dare to approach. He’s lived with that most of his life. But for more than a month now he’s seen a man around that pays him extra attention when they cross paths (and not in the flirty way). At first Tom had guessed it simply was a scary looking fan. He just gets brief glimpses of him, nothing more, and doesn’t think much of it. But one day when he’s at the supermarket, he spots the man outside. He’s inspecting Tom’s car out on the parking lot, making Tom think that maybe something much more sinister is at work. 

This day there’s something different about the man. It takes Tom a while to figure it out. The man is about 6 feet tall, built, short cropped brown hair, average looks. Nothing that makes him stand out apart from the athletic build and a scar on the cheek. Tom keeps an eye on the man while he pays. The man goes to lean against the wall five feet away from Tom’s car, and lights a cigarette. He’s wearing sunshades, sturdy jeans, boots, and a tank top. That’s when it hits Tom that he’s never seen the man without a leather jacket before, despite the heat that refuses to let up its grip.

Tom takes the bag of groceries in one hand and his keys in the other, holding them as a knuckle duster. His heart is racing as he walks towards his car, puffing himself up. The man watches him approach, isn’t even discreet about it. He has a text carved onto his upper arm by the shoulder. Not until he’s almost by the car can Tom make out the words. ‘`CROATOAN`’ is carved into his skin, over and over, layered to form a scar that lacks any finesse and must be as deep as it is raised. Not ‘I survived the...’ or ‘Bit by the..’, simply ‘Croatoan’. Utterly tasteless.

The man pushes his sunglasses up to rest on top of his head and Tom’s internal alarm is elevated to defcon 5, making him sweat. The man has hazel eyes and they’re honed in on Tom as if he’s pray. They’re cold and unfazed and have without a doubt seen too much. There’s not an ounce of compassion in that gaze.

Tom eyes him warily while he opens the trunk to put the groceries in. The man smirks in amusement and takes a drag of his cigarette, sensing his fear. “You okay there, Tom?” he asks.

It rattles Tom, to be addressed by name. It sounds like a threat, even if the man is completely relaxed and uses a friendly enough tone. “Who wants to know?”

“A common friend of ours,” the man answers cryptically.

“I don’t have friends of your kind,” Tom answers curtly, not bothering to hide his hostility.

The man blows out smoke in an annoyed huff and waves his hand dismissively. “So you’re not friends. The fuck should I know? I’m just the messenger.”

“And what’s the message?” Tom asks, scowling, and tries to control his breathing. This close, everything about the man gives him chills. A shark in the water.

The man snorts, flicks his cigarette away and flips his sunshades back down over his eyes. “No message for you. I got what I came for. Have a nice day, Tom,” he says, pushes himself away from the wall and saunters off, away from Tom.

Tom’s starts shaking from unused adrenaline in his bloodstream once the man’s gone and he’s safely back in the driver’s seat of his car. He’s sweating profusely, rattled to his bone. The man hadn’t threatened him or done anything but say strange things, yet it feels like he’s just dodged a full bullet rain. No matter how he tries he can’t figure out what the man wanted, or who would be their common ‘friend’.

It’s the last time he sees the man, yet it makes Tom a bit uneasy and on guard when he’s out and about. 

The summer is turning to autumn with chillier nights and more cloudy days, yet still no rain. It’s like God it taunting them with every overcast day. As far as Tom’s concerned, God can screw himself.

With Jessi and Juss gone, and Noah back in school, the house turns thunderously silent. Noah doesn’t bring home many friends, and when he does, they study. Otherwise he goes straight to church after school, or help Grace with her things. Tom is worried about Noah, to be honest. He’s so serious and withdrawn most of the time now. He talks with Jessi on the phone for one or two hours daily, taking her departure much harder than the rest of them. Tom misses Jessi and Justin too, but it’s with mixed feelings. He also feels relieved. They’re safely tucked away in another state, and can’t be affected when everything goes to shit. Because it’s going to, Tom’s sure. He both fears for it and longs for it.

He’s frighteningly unstable, moodwise, now that Justin isn’t around. John raises his mood, only to have it drop when John’s not around. He looks at Grace when she joins them for a talk and a glass of wine. She’s smiling again. Tired, yes, but smiling, and it’s John who does it, Tom’s sure.   
Cathy keeps declining any invitations Grace gives her to join them when John comes over and John is quiet about the possible divorce. Yet… Tom looks at the two persons he love and thinks that maybe he’s standing in the way of something. He tries leaving them alone, but John always comes to find him if he withdraws for too long. It gives him misdirected hope. John’s probably just put himself on constant suicide watch. Tom starts keeping any negative remarks to himself, pretending that he hasn’t made preparations like changing the combination to his safe to Jessi’s birth date instead of Sam’s, so it will be easier to crack once he’s dead. He gets his will updated, striking his parents from the list of beneficiaries, and adding in John, Justin, and Sam for parts of what he owns. (Grace, Noah, and Jessi inheriting the greatest part of course.) People may ask why Sam stands to inherit anything, but Tom will be too dead to answer questions once his will is revealed. 

He starts entering every shooting competition within the state and he’s having a lot of success. If it doesn’t clash with Noah’s classes, he comes along to watch. Same with John’s work schedule. When John comes along, Tom’s at his best and it’s worth it for the celebration with John afterwards. John no longer hooks up when they go out. When Tom asks about it, John confesses that he took Justin’s advice. “So I’m celibate until the private detective have gotten good enough pictures and the divorce is final. Don’t want anything to screw up my chance to be free,” John says with a rueful grin.

It makes Tom be careful with affectionate gestures when they’re out and about, even if it’s only friendly ones. He’s seen how a paparazzi picture taken out of context can make things appear something other than what they are, and he’s afraid that Cathy might respond with the same dirty tactics if she finds out. No shade may fall on John.

In private though… Sometimes those intrusive thoughts are just too persistent, and he acts upon them. Not often. But the few times he does are too many, just by the fact that he does it. He has to blame inebriation. He drinks much too much and too often, and takes too many painkillers.

Like the day Tom’s leg gives way in front of John again. Thankfully not in a stair this time. No, coming from the kitchen, walking through the living room, the leg just folds. John’s by his side in a heartbeat, helping him up and trying to convince him to go to the hospital. It’s not that bad. His leg is working just fine again within a few seconds and he definitely doesn’t want to go to any god damned hospital. He had promised John he’d be allowed to take him if he was sober, so he demonstratively chugs straight from a whiskey bottle. John’s eyes widen in angry disbelief. “No you _didn’t._ ”

“Yep. I think I just did,” Tom answers, defiant and arrogant. 

It sets off a _major_ argument, their biggest so far. Complete with yelling and a couple of shoves from both of them. Tom’s tongue is sharp, calling John controlling and overbearing, using cutting words that he doesn’t mean, but should have John turning on his heel and slamming the door after himself. But John stays, giving as good as he gets. Except the things he says about Tom are probably 95% truer. They’ve been arguing for the greatest part of an hour when they reach the boiling point. Too much testosterone, adrenaline, and hard words lead them to a point where the only option is escalating to violence or break down crying and run, since both of them are too mule-headedly stubborn to back down and take back what they’ve said. “Get out of my face, John, or I swear to God, I’ll frigging punch you!” Tom shouts, fists clenched at his side.

John’s face is contorted in anger, eyes nearly black, face flushed, a vein in his forehead pounding. He shoves Tom on the chest, making him stagger backward, but follows, getting all up in Tom’s face straight away. “Go ahead. Do your worst,” John snarls. “I’ll give you a free shot. Fuck, I’ll give you three. Hit me, Tom! I _dare_ you.”

Tom’s fists are itching to follow through with his threat. He sorely wants to punch. But the anger isn’t really towards John. And if he hits, he’s lost, whether John hits back or not. The only one deserving of a beating is Tom himself. And if he hits, John might leave, and never come back. He sees it before his inner eye―pulling his arm back and hitting John’s handsome face, can imagine the satisfying pain in his knuckles, the fleshy cracking sound, the blood. One punch, and John would be lost to him.

Tom fists John’s shirt and pulls him in, winds his arms around him, squeezes his eyes shut and clings, head bent down to press his nose against his shoulder. John’s stiff in his grip, waiting for the wrestle, for any kind of violence, breathing hard from controlled rage. 

Tom’s breathing hard too. He’s sober. He’d have to be drunk to lose inhibitions enough to throw a punch at someone he loves in anything other than self-defense. It’s possible he couldn’t even do that while sober. He could never hit Grace back, and he’d probably just take it from John too, and forgive just as easily. After all, _he_ is being the idiot. _He_ deserves it.

He digs his fingers into John’s back, presses himself as close as he can. John might not come back. Not after the mean things Tom’s just said. He might not come back. 

John is stock still for a moment. It takes him a while to get that the painful way Tom’s fingers dig in, isn’t an act of hostility. His elbows bends―he raises his hands holding them up and out, palms flat, in a ‘What the Hell…?’ kind of gesture. Tom changes his grip slightly, but still clings on.

John starts to relax in his grip, then John’s arms are around him, his head resting against Tom’s shoulder. John’s breath becomes shuddering as the acute fight or flight mode leaves him. 

“I’m sorry…”

“No, no, Tommy. _I’m_ sorry.”

“No. I’m being stupid. I don’t mean those things I said.”

“I’m sorry if I come across as overbearing. I just want what’s best for you.”

“You’re not overbearing. I’m being a little shit. I’m acting stupid and willfully provoked you.”

“You _are_ being stupid. But you still got it right. I am a bit domineering. Cathy gives me shit about it too when we fight.”

“You sure she wasn’t arguing with the mirror?” Tom jokes shakily.

It makes the both of them chortle unsteadily. Tom loosens his cling to something less desperate, but none of them lets go of the embrace.

“Tom. Let me take you to the hospital,” John tries again, softer, less demanding, and leans his temple against Tom’s.

“I don’t have the mental strength right now, to go through the rehab loop again. As long as I can use my leg…”

“It might get worse. You told me yourself that you might lose the use of the leg if you keep over taxing it.”

_Did I? Shit. That’s not good._

Tom can’t remember telling John. He must have told him while drunk. “It will get worse. So let it. Let me have my fun while I can.”

“Tom, it’s hard watching you destroy yourself. It’ll affect everyone of us if you don’t take care of yourself. You’re being selfish.” Their voices are low and calm now they’re actually talking. Their standpoints are the same, but they’re listening to each other.

Tom turns his head so he can look John in the eyes. “You told me I had a right to be…”

There’s a tick in the muscles by John’s eye. He’s wearing a troubled frown, studying Tom’s face, his eyes. Then he sighs. “Yes. You do. Alright. Yes.” He puts his chin on Tom’s shoulder, pulls Tom in closer and relaxes into the embrace. “You do. I’m sorry. You do.” 

Tom bends his neck and buries his face in John’s neck, flattening his palms against his back. John’s hand comes up to cup the back of his head. It’s such a major relief the fight is over. _Major_ relief.

They stand like that, holding each other while their breath and pulse slows down. Tom would gladly have stood like that for the rest of his life.

“Okay. This is getting gay,” John says, ruining it.

“You have no idea,” Tom answers with a snigger.

John chuckles and lets go, steps away from Tom and runs a hand through his hair, not meeting Tom’s gaze. “That was intense. What do you say, get plastered and forget all about this?” 

And that’s the idiocracy that several hours later leads up Tom’s state of inebriation that makes him unable to resist the lure of giving in to one of those intrusive thoughts. Those ‘What would happen if I…?’ Of course it’s the frigging stairs where it happens. Grace and Noah have come home. Tom and John are too drunk to pretend they aren’t, so as not make fools of themselves in front of Noah, or wake Grace’s ire, they head for the den. In this state Tom might have needed help down the stairs, messed up leg or not. 

John is walking backwards in front of him, gripping the bannisters, backing one step at a time, acting as a roadblock. Tom is two steps above him, holding the bannisters in a death grip. He stops and sways. Both of them are giggling at some stupid joke, red eyed and rosy cheeked. John has removed his button down shirt, and is now clad in the tank top he’d had underneath. It strains over his chest since the little shit is working out relentlessly, getting himself into shape. He’s covered in a faint sheen of sweat and his chest hair is peeking out by his low collar. And, dear Lord almighty, he’s such a gorgeous sight. Tom’s been admiring his arms, chest, and shoulders since he took his shirt off. He’s so goddamned strong and smells so good. Tom would pay good money to taste that tanned skin, to get to lick the sweat off… 

Tom sways forward, but not on purpose. John takes a quick step upward and catches him, laughing. “Woah, boy. No nosedivin’ down the stairs y’ear me?” he says, holding Tom up while Tom leans heavily on him. He smells so, so, good. 

Tom’s face is mere inches from John’s upper arm. When the impulse comes, there’s no conscious thought between it and the action. He opens his mouth and closes his lips around John’s skin, tasting the sweaty skin with his tongue and dragging his teeth lightly over it. An eruption of goosebumps spreads over John’s skin in wake of the action. John goes absolutely stiff and stock still. “Tom? Tommy? Wh-what are you doin?”

_God. He tastes as good as he looks._

Regretfully Tom raises his head to look at John. John’s eyes are widened in shock and his brows are drawn down in a frown. He isn’t smiling, that’s for sure. “What does it seem like I’m doing?” Tom answers with a faint smirk from under heavy eyelids. Then he bends his head down to do it again. This time John grabs his shoulders and jerks him off, stopping him. Every hair on John’s body he can see, is standing on end. But his expression is a mix of shock and grimness.

“I’m not sure. Ts why I’m askin,” John says bluntly, unmercifully, hostile. 

Tom gives him a shiteating grin, swaying slightly in John’s grip. “I’m biting off more than I can chew, that’s what I’m doing,” he answers easily.

John scrutinises him for a beat. Three seconds perhaps. 

It feels like hours.

Tom holds his silly grin. When he can’t take the tension anymore he waggles his eyebrows. John snorts, then his lips start to twitch. He chuckles bemusedly, then breaks out laughing and shakes his head. “Y’ loose all sense of decency when you’re drunk, Tommy. T ain’t right. S’all I’m sayin’,” he says and bodily hauls Tom down the rest of the stair. Tom laughs as if he made a joke somehow. He can imagine the thought process that went on beyond the facade to make John laugh. ‘ _It’s a joke. It’s all it is. It didn’t seem like a fucking joke! No. It’s a joke. It has to be. Yes, he’s joking._

John proceeds to haul Tom all the way to the couch and dumps him on it. “Y gotta think. People may get the wrong idea. Ts all I’m sayin’,” John says.

Tom chortles. “Nobody’s getting the wrong idea, Johnny boy.”

John snorts in amusement. “Yeah, jackass, they do.” He turns on his heel and heads for the liquor cabinet, muttering “Wrong idea. Ain’t right. Just sayin’.” He takes the cognac out of the cabinet and just kind of stops, head bent, holding his forehead, looking unseeingly at the floor with a troubled look on his face. He remains standing there, locked inside his head, until Tom almost starts to worry.

“You alright, John?”

John turns his head and gives Tom a look that Tom’s too drunk to read, with the faintest upward quirk to his lips. “Yeah, yeah. Sure. I just… gimme a sec. Gimme a sec,” he says and remains standing a while longer, looking at the floor again. He shakes his head. Then shakes it again. “Comin’,” he says and seems to snap out of it for real this time, with one last headshake.

Tom knows he’s messed up this time. He feels completely okay with it. He’s completely relaxed and content. It’s time. He’s ready.

John comes over with the booze, stops by the couch and looks down on him with an unreadable expression.

“You going home now?” Tom asks with a soft smile, meeting his gaze without wavering.

“What? No. No. Ain’t goin’ nowhere. Ts… ts just ain’t right. We shoun’t. Shoun’t be, y’know. Too much drinkin’. Y’re confused. Think, Tommy. Gotta think,” John babbles drunkenly.

Tom grins. “ _Bite me_ ,” he says, snaps his teeth in John’s direction, and chortles. He says it in the ‘Fuck off’ manner, not as if he’s actually asking for a bite. He’s screwed up. Might as well go down swinging. 

John lets out a disbelieving laugh and twists around to sit down heavily in the couch, grinning. Quite the opposite of what Tom thinks he will do. “Zero fucks given. I like that. Y’re right. I think too much. Too much,” he says while unscrewing the cork of the bottle. He chugs straight from the bottle and hands it over to Tom.

Tom has problem following the turn of the events. They don’t match up with the script he has in his head. He takes the bottle and John grabs his ankle on the injured leg. He pulls it up in his lap, making Tom fall into a lying position, and then he’s suddenly massaging the knee in a way that’s relieving pain Tom wasn’t even aware of―too used to feeling it as he is. It totally derails Tom from travelling further down the road of destruction. He groans in pleasure and lets his head fall back on the armrest. “It’s a shame polyandry isn’t legal. I’d marry you for those magic hands alone,” he says.

John sniggers. “‘F I ‘ad a penny for every time I’ve been told ‘at, I’d be rich.”

“What?” Tom says and raises his head to look at John in mock confusion. “It’s a shame polyandry isn’t legal?” he jokes.

John laughs. “ _No_ , jackass. Magic hands.” And with that the situation is diffused, going back to the light mood it was before Tom slipped up. 

It’s the closest call to date.

In the morning afterwards when Tom remembers it, the calm acceptance is nowhere to be found. He has a panic attack so strong it makes him throw up, and nearly hyperventilate himself into unconsciousness.

* * *

So he goes through ups and downs, worse than before. He lives in a glass case only John seems to be able to penetrate. He sees himself as useful for nobody now that Justin isn’t around. Justin had needed him, but the rest of his loved ones… he’s a dead weight dragging them down. He visits Jessi who is doing great (albeit is somewhat overwhelmed), and gets to meet her two flatmates. He pays a visit to Justin too, instead of going straight home. He doesn’t call in advance, just shows up outside Justin’s apartment door, hoping to find the boy with a new companion. Justin lights up like the sun at the sight of him. He stays the night and if possible, Justin’s even more heartbroken when he leaves than he was last time they separated. Tom thinks he’s doing Justin a disservice by visiting, causing more heartbreak than he should. He should just stay away and let the boy mourn, because Justin’s not accepting of the impossibility of their romance, as Sam had been.

Cal calls, and Tom picks up. He agrees to meet up, intending to break it off properly. It doesn’t end that way. Tom’s weak and Cal’s convincing. They end up in bed together, and Tom just knows he’s a bad human being for letting it happen.

He spends a lot of time on the shooting range, and is not happy when he hears it’s going to be closed for two weeks for renovations.

One night he turns down seeing John in favour of hooking up with Cal. It’s not worth it. Not after seeing John again afterwards and noting the disappointment John tries to hide when he asks what Tom did the night before. Never has a lie tasted that bitter. It’s time to break it up with Cal for real this time.

John has a big conference meeting one night, so Tom calls Cal, asking to meet up on a bar in the city. Once there, they grab a beer and talk. Tom spills the beans about who he is. Turns out Cal already knows. Tom explains about his wife, about the congregation, the consequences if he’s found out. He tells him they can’t go on. He sees that it hurts the man, but Cal’s an adult with plenty of experience of ostracization and violence caused by homophobia. He understands and accepts the breakup, despite a breaking heart. Afterwards they walk together through the city, talking about past crushed chances of romance, caused by being closeted in a homophobic society. Tom feels both lighter for this being over, and heavy hearted about all chances lost in fear. 

The street leading to Cal’s apartment is deserted, and Tom takes Cal’s hand as they walk towards the apartment building. They stop outside of the entrance and look at each other. It’s an overcast day, almost chilly now that the evening has claimed its dusky grip on the city. The light is as muted and heavy as Tom’s inside.

“I know this is goodbye, Tom. But is it too much to ask for one last kiss?” Cal asks. He’s beautiful. Ebony skin and black eyes filled with resignation and sadness. If Tom says no, he will nod in acceptance and part without a backward glance, no matter what his heart tells him. Tom sees it in his posture, heard it in his words when he talked about lost loves. 

Tom cups his cheek and leans in. He closes his eyes when their lips meet, winds his arms around that firm, lean and muscular torso one last time. Cal’s arms comes around to hold him. The kiss is filled with sadness, but turns lingering and sensual, as none of them really want it to end.

“ _Tommy?!_ ”

John’s shocked, disbelieving voice shatters the moment like a gunshot.

Tom jerks his head around to see John stand by the corner of the building, 20 yards away. Eyes wide in shock, mouth hanging open and blood drained from his face. “Shit.” There’s no way to explain away this. No way this can be construed as anything but what it is―Tom making out lovingly, with another man. Tom’s heart jumps into overdrive. His face flushes in panicked shame and fear, numbing his skin, meeting John’s gaze.

John’s mouth snaps shut. His face contorts in anger, eyes blackening, face reddening. He shakes his head in denial, then turns on his heels and disappears around the corner, running footsteps receding.

Tom frees himself from Cal and runs to the corner of the building. John’s nowhere to be seen.

“Shit.”

When it happens, Tom’s not ready….

* * *


	29. Pulling The Trigger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom deals with the aftermath of John having seen him and Cal together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger warning:** Read the tags!
> 
> Quote from my Beta: "oh no! I swear this is not healthy! I'm hoping you'll post a warning along with this chapter! extreme emotional rollercoaster that will leave you disoriented and scared (and probably good, by the end??)."

## September 2014

* * *

Tom’s heart is beating overtime. Tendrils of fear run down his spine. He's screwed. He's screwed. He's screwed. He turns around long enough to raise a hand in goodbye to Cal, then runs down the street John disappeared on. 

He comes to the next crossroad. A busy street with cars and people on it. John’s nowhere to be seen. A cab passes by and Tom knows he’s screwed. There’s several cabs visible on the street, parked as well as running. John could have jumped into one.

Screwed. 

And was he about to say to John anyway? ‘I can explain?’ There is no explanation other than ‘I'm a homophile. A sodomite. God's most hated garbage.’

Nevertheless, he searches the street, looking at every person he sees, gazing inside every cab. To no avail. He tries calling, but John doesn’t pick up. 

John is gone.

* * *

When he finally makes it home he's nauseous from anxiety. He expects Grace and Noah to know. Thinking John would have called Grace. 

Nothing. 

Grace and Noah acts as usual. He keeps up appearances. Talks to them with his pulse whooshing in his ears and worms crawling in his belly. Smile for the cameras. He’s done for. He’ll destroy them in the process. How can they not see it written on his face?

He can’t sleep. Minutes drag by painfully slow. He tries calling John again. It goes directly to voicemail. He writes texts that he doesn’t send. What can he say? There’s nothing.

He’s so, so screwed.

Waiting. 

He’s constantly on the brink of a panic attack. Cal calls to check up on him after what happened yesterday. He tells him it’s alright and leaves it at that. Cal’s not fooled―perhaps due to similar experiences―“If it goes to shit, you can come here,” he offers. Tom appreciates the thought, but that’s not how it’s going to end. His fate will be much darker. He knows that.

He can’t eat.

When he goes out he expects to run into someone who knows. Someone John might have told. He’s cold and clammy. Can’t seem to get enough air into his lungs, constantly taking too shallow breaths.

He helps Noah with his homework, makes jokes, keeping up appearances, wondering how Noah can’t see that he’s falling to pieces from anxiety.

He tries going to John’s home, ringing the doorbell. Nobody’s answering the door.

He can’t sleep. 

Doesn’t even manage to doze off for a minute. He’s screwed. He’s screwed. He’s screwed.

The guilt is clogging up his brain. Soon everyone will know and he will single-handedly have destroyed his family.

He tries calling John’s office. Monica, John’s secretary, chirps that she’ll put him through, then comes back on line, sounding confused, informing him that John’s busy.

Hours drag slowly, one long minute after another. 

He can’t eat. He tries, but everything grows in his mouth and his stomach turns.

He can’t sleep.

He can’t sleep and he can’t shut his brain off.

Everything just blurs together. The ground beneath his feet starts feeling spongy. He can barely get anything down besides water. His thoughts are muddled and his brain is having trouble keeping up with simple things due to sleep deprivation. He’s exhausted to the point where his whole body aches.

He can’t sleep.

Saturday. Tomorrow it’s time to go to church.

He misses John. It’s a physical ache. He wants to have him close again. Hear his laugh, talk for hours, be idiots together.

It’s never going to happen.

He can’t handle seeing disgust and contempt in John’s eyes. He just _can’t_.

Why is he even waiting around?

There’s no good reason. He’s done for. His life is over. He got some borrowed time, but he knows the time ran out when Justin left.

Three days. It’s all he can stand.

It’s time.

He writes a letter to Sam and puts it in his safe. Maybe someone will mail it, maybe they won’t. He takes his gun and a case of bullets out of the safe and leaves it unlocked. He heads upstairs. Grace is in the kitchen. He puts down his gun case and bullets on the table and goes up to her by the counter. He grabs a hold of her and pulls her into a hug. “I’m off to the shooting range,” he says. “Love you.” He kisses her temple. One last kiss for a better companion than he’s deserved.

Grace snorts in sceptical amusement, but hugs back. “Can you pick up eggs on your way back? I’m using the last ones now,” she says and frees herself from the embrace to check up on the eggs she’s frying.

“Sure,” he says and gives her a smile. Then he picks up his things and leaves her to her brunch making.

Noah’s watching TV in the living room. He walks over there, bends down and kisses the top of Noah’s head. “I love you, Champ.”

Noah tears his gaze from the TV to give him a bemused look. “I love you too, dad,” he answers, lilting his voice to make it a sound like he’s asking ‘wtf?’ at the unprompted show of affection.

Tom smiles at him and ruffles his hair before turning to leave.

Noah gives him a ‘huh. Weird’-look then returns his attention to the TV.

Tom leaves the house, goes to the garage, gets into his car, and drives off. The gun range is closed, but lies surrounded by woods, somewhat off. You take a left from the highway, onto a road into the countryside, then take a right onto a dirt road that ends by the gun range. That forest road is not very trafficked―shouldn’t be, now the range is closed and it’s weekend, meaning no ones working on the renovations. That’s where he’s heading.

* * *

Grace has just sat down to eat when the doorbell rings. “Noah, can you get that?” she calls out. 

“ _Toilet_ ,” Noah yells back.

She sighs and rolls her eyes, then gets up to go answer the door.

She opens the door to find John looking grim outside, hands in his back pockets. His expression changes when he sees her, shifting to a smile. “Hey, John. Long time, no see,” she jokes with a smile. It’s only been three days, but with how much time he and Tom has spent together lately, it’s an eternity.

“Yeah. I’ve been busy. So, um. Is Tom at home?” he says, smile still plastered on his face, but not reflected in his eyes.

“No. You just missed him. What did he do this time?” she asks, somewhere between amusement and annoyed resignation. It’s clear to see that the two of them had a fight again, by John’s body language alone. Add to that, that Tom’s been on perfect behaviour the last three days, like he always is when he’s messed up and tries to make amends. All smiles and compliance. If Grace was the one wronged, he’d been buying her flowers or gifts too, as well as sucking up and being extra nice. He is easy to forgive. The problem was that he is a repeat offender, which left you feeling humiliated and foolish for forgiving him.

“You don’t happen to know where he went do you?” John asks, ignoring her question.

“He went to the shooting range. Five, ten minutes ago, perhaps.”

“The shooting range?” John asks, looking baffled and somewhat alarmed. “But it’s―“ he cuts himself off. “Thanks, Grace. I’ll catch him there.” John turns and hurries towards his car, face turning grim the moment he’s turned away from her.

* * *

Tom parks his car by the side of the dirt road, making it possible for cars to pass by. He feels calm. Just like he had twenty years ago when he last made this decision. This time, there’d be nobody to stop him. It’d be too fast. It’s a shame he can’t make it look like an accident, since now his family won’t get the life insurance money. It doesn’t matter. 

And maybe, maybe John hasn’t told anyone yet. Maybe his death will stop John from talking, sparing his family. You don’t talk shit about dead people. 

Tom takes a few steadying breaths and closes his eyes in prayer. He prays to God to take good care of his family and loved ones. There’s doubt in his prayer though. Doubt that there’s a god to receive it. It would bode well for his own destiny from here on, but it breaks his heart at the same time. He faintly hears a car, but pays it no heed. It will pass by. On its way back, he’d be found, and the word would get to his family faster. They don’t really need him. He’s been selfish, sticking around to drag them done. He should have done this the moment he got the news about not being able to play anymore.

He’s startled out of his reverie when the passenger side car door is suddenly opened and somebody’s getting in.

Tom’s eyes fly open, pulse jumping in fright, thinking it’s a carjacker. 

It’s John. He’s staring angrily at Tom, lips compressed to a thin line, breathing rough.

“What are you doing here?” Tom asks, pulse elevating further and gut clenching. 

John tears his gaze away with a bitter headshake. “You just had to go and ruin it, didn't you?”

“I’m sorry.” The words slink out of Tom’s mouth unbidden. What else is there to say?

John continues as if he hadn’t heard. “The fucking worst thing is, I _recognised_ him. I met him in the lobby when heading to your room one night when we were out and― _fuck_!” He strikes out, delivering one hard punch to the dashboard. Tom flinches, pulse racing. John looks at him again, seething anger reined back and controlled. “Is this another one of your self destruct things you’ve been doing lately? Is it?!”

“I’m gay.”

“No. No. That’s bullshit―“

“I’m homosexual. A sodomite. Faggot. Homophile. Fairy. Friends with Dorothy. Pick your choice. I’m gay, John.” Tom’s surprised how steady and calm he sounds. He’s anything but. On the inside he’s shrunk back into a little ball comprised of shame, guilt, and regret. He keeps his fingers hooked and rested against the lower inside of his steering wheel, grounding himself. It’s not very helpful.

“ _Fuck!_ ” John heaves himself out of the car and disappears towards the back of the car with his hands fisted in his hair and his head bent. The car door is left open. Tom can hear him cursing further away.

Tom stares straight ahead, trying to keep his breathing steady. On his inside he’s a jumble of emotions, but at the same time, he feels partially removed from them. Or his shell is, while the core of him is curled into a ball, rocking itself like a frightened child.

John suddenly gets back into the car. “Since when? When did you start fucking guys?” John accuses. God, he’s pissed. So angry. Not the red in the face and black eyes kind of angry, but the ‘You son of a bitch, how could you do this to me?’-kind of angry. His words are delivered as whiplashes.

“I lost my virginity when I was sixteen,” Tom answers steadily. But he’s starting to waver now. God knows, he’d tell John anything he wanted to know. It’s just… having it dragged out of him like this… it leaves him vulnerable. It’s like taking kicks lying down.

“Who? Who was it? Anyone I know?”

Tom turns his head away. Can’t look at those furious brown eyes. “No. A coach in an opposing team…”

“A _coach_?! Jesus Christ! What were you thinking? You came on to a coach?”

Tom shakes his head. Looks at his knee. Picks at the seam of his jeans. “He saw me. Told me to stay behind after the game. Spat the truth about me in my face. Said he knew what I was. A filthy, disgusting, worthless faggot. Threatened to tell my parents. He, uh…” Tom takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes. He’s back in that locker room. On his knees, burning with shame, fear, and humiliation. “Had me suck him off. Forced me to beg him to fuck me. Spat on me when he was done. Made sure I was aware that God could never love someone like me. That I didn’t deserve better. Told me to come to him straight after the game the next time our teams met. So I did.”

“ _Jesus fucking Christ!_ Why didn’t you tell anyone??”

“He’d tell my parents if I didn’t obey. Who would have believed me? Really, John. Would you?” He turns his head to look at John. John is staring at him with such a mix of emotions it’s hard to tell what he’s feeling. Anger, upset, horror. Tom can’t bear it, turns his head away to look out of the side window.

“ _Fuck._ ” John leaves the car again. Slams his fist into the trunk lid of the car so hard Tom flinches in fear and feels his eyes start to sting as tears threatens to break loose. Then John’s back by his side. “So that’s it? That’s what made you gay?” he says, still with the accusing lilt to his voice.

“No. I was born that way. I didn’t know what was wrong with me until I was fifteen and had my first crush on a man. Remember our priest back then? Him. Maybe I knew it before then, but I could no longer deny it to myself when he came to town.”

“Our priest? Who? You mean, the new one we got then? Hoechlin?”

Tom nods and braves a glance at John. John’s facing the windshield, scowling by default now, but his eyes are wide and moving like he’s looking at a memory. He makes some kind of half shrug that looks eerily like he’s―unwillingly―conceding to a point. Then his head snaps around to glare at Tom. “If you knew, then why the _fuck_ did you marry Grace? The fuck were you thinking?!”

Tom feels his lips wobble. Struggles to get it under control. He holds his hands out, turning them over to show his forearms. He runs a finger along the faded scars from his suicide attempt. “My parents came home earlier than they said they were going to… Gave me hell about this. About trying to commit a mortal sin, and embarrassing them. I proposed to her a week after I got home from the hospital. Trying to make up for being a disgrace and a failure. Still thought that maybe I could be cured. If there ever was a woman I could fall in love with, Grace would be it. Didn’t happen. I almost divorced her after I got to Germany. Fell in love. He was my first big love. But Grace was pregnant by then and I couldn’t abandon my child.”

“Shit. Fuck. Jesus.” John hisses between his teeth in frustration. “This can’t be right. I _saw_ you make out with a woman.”

“Enough alcohol, and anything goes. I like kissing.”

“ _Alcohol_? That’s all it is? You’re telling me that what you do when you’re drunk, means _nothing_? You feel _nothing_?” John asks, twisting his body to face Tom, upset and accusing, eyes getting glossy from whatever shitstorm of emotions is going on behind all that anger.

“With women? No. Men’s another matter.”

John falls back in his seat, facing forward again, staring straight ahead at something inside his head again. Tom can see how he latches onto a thought that pisses him off. “I’ve barely slept. I’ve had to reexamine _everything_ we’ve done. Everything you’ve done and said. Everything. I’ve got one word for you…” John says and turns his head to glare at Tom. His face twists into a grimace Tom’s dreaded. Worse than just anger and bitterness. There it is, mingled with rage―contempt. Disgust. “Justin,” John says and Tom’s stomach plummets.

“Juss bears no guilt in what’s happened. Don’t put blame on him.”

“ **NOo!** ” John shouts and punches the dashboard so hard he dents it. He twists around to point a finger accusingly in Tom’s face, almost touching. “Wrong. Fucking. Answer! The hell are you thinking?! I can’t believe you’d go for him! Jesus fucking Christ!” He’s getting red faced with anger now. Tom shrinks in on himself, away from him. That punch on the dashboard, it was meant for him, just redirected. He gets that. He deserves the violence in John’s eyes, but fears it also. John’s a strong man. Fuelled with adrenaline and rage, he’d be able to beat Tom to a pulp. Especially now, when Tom wouldn’t defend himself to save his life. John gets out, slams the door forcefully behind him, grabs the edge of the car roof for extra leverage, and starts kicking the back tyre with everything he’s got.

Tom squeezes his eyes shut and flinches with every bang. It’s meant for him. He knows that. Violence meant for him. That’s what he drove his best friend to. He wishes John wouldn’t redirect that rage onto the car, but just give it to him, like he deserves. Yet he feels each kick physically, mentally. He presses his fingers to his eyes, trying to stop those hated tears. He deserves this and worse.

The kicks stop. It turns silent except for the sound of Tom’s deep breaths. Time drags. It’s an eternity until John opens the door again, leaning inside the car, one arm draped over the top of the door and the other over the car roof. He doesn’t look as enraged anymore. Upset? Yes. But not that close to the black eyed rage he unleashed on the car. “How could you do it, Tommy? _How_?”

“He wasn’t an unwilling participant,” Tom defends himself.

John rolls his eyes. “Yes, I figured. The guy thinks you hung the moon. He’s been following you around like a lovesick puppy as long as I’ve known him, guarding your attention jealously. Naively, I thought it was hero worship. It made sense at the time. It’s not about that and you should know it. It’s not even his age. I’ve had my share of twenty year olds. But you’re in a position of power over him. Willing or not, with the power you hold, he couldn’t say no if he wanted and that’s fucking _wrong_. The same reason I don’t fuck my secretary. Any consent he might give is dubious at best.”

John hits where it hurts, because he’s right. Tom had entertained those thoughts from the start. He’d told himself he’d _never_ touch the boy for that reason alone. Nevermind the ‘you don’t shit where you eat’, or the boy’s age. It was the biggest reason it had taken Justin so long to wear him down. He can’t stop the tears rolling down his cheeks now. He hates that he’s a crier. Real men don’t cry. “I’m not made of stone, John. The boy’s sex on legs and he was coming on so strong. Relentlessly. I never forced myself on him. He wanted it. I swear it to you, I couldn’t have taken advantage if he didn’t want it. He had me figured me out at our first meeting. He just wouldn’t give up. And to me? His looks? Pure porn. I caved. It’s not his fault. I’m weak and depraved, John. Don’t put any blame on him.”

John closes his eyes and hangs his head. “You fucking idiot, Tommy. You _know_ how low his self-esteem is. He’d interpret all your actions after whatever it is you did got started, as payback for favours. Sending him to college? He must be thinking his value is as a fucking whore to you!” John looks up at him, shaking his head, a desperate look in his eyes. “We know it isn’t true, but he wouldn’t. How could you? It makes it very hard for me to keep my respect for you,” he says, pleading lilt to his voice. Like he’s begging Tom to restore any lost respect. 

He shouldn’t keep any respect. There’s nothing about Tom worthy of respect. Cat’s out of the bag. He’s diseased. Despicable. The lowest of low. Right now, he wants John to know it. Because the pleading in his voice and eyes is a desperate call for comfort. He wants Tom to tell him that this isn’t true. That none of it is. And Tom can’t deal with the lies. No more.

“Keep your respect? John, it’s just the start of it. Sit yourself down, and I’ll eradicate any trace of respect you’d ever had for me,” Tom challenges and points at the passenger seat. If he wants to drag up Tom’s dark side, then he might as well choke on it.

John’s nostrils flare, his mouth a thin line. He hesitates for a beat, then gets in, shutting the door. He looks at Tom apprehensively and jerks his head in an upward nod, wordlessly urging for him to talk.

“Let’s set the bar, shall we?” Tom says, beginning with something he thinks will revolt John. He’s all bitter defiance now. “Awkward boner in the shower in high school? I’d seen Maise naked, yes. But couldn’t care less. My crush at the time― _you_ ―lathering yourself up and tilting your head up in the spray with obvious pleasure? A _whole_ other matter. You were a friggin wet dream to a perverted Christian boy like myself.”

John’s picking up on the provocative vibes and shakes his head. “You’re just saying that to mess with me now,” he challenges.

“No. It’s the friggin truth of it. Justin got it right. I had a crush on you in high school.”

John’s jaw muscles clenches and unclenches rhythmically. He lifts his hand and drags his palm over his mouth. His gaze is sharp and penetrating, but it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking. “Feelings… I can hardly lose my respect for you, for having feelings, whatever they may have been, since you didn’t act upon them. As for boners… every guy has had trouble with his dick getting hard when it shouldn’t,” he says, voice calm and every word careful, measured. A muscle by his eye starts to twitch when he mentions wayward boners. His hand settles over his mouth, like he’s creating a gag, keeping words in.

Tom snorts. “Fine. I’ll keep myself to actions. That night when you met Cal in the lobby?”

“Cal’s the guy I saw you… that you were… The guy I saw you kissing?” John asks, removing his hand just enough to speak before covering his mouth again.

“Yes. When you and I parted, I got a hotel room, then took a cab to a nearby gay club. A real nest of depravity. Went out on the dance floor and let anyone who wanted cop a feel, or more. When I went to the hotel, Cal wasn’t the only one to come with me. He left his number when I threw them out, otherwise I wouldn’t even know his name.” Tom’s blunt and hard when he speaks. He doesn’t raise his voice, and his face must show all of his bitter self-contempt.

John’s face twitches. He looks away, pressing his hand even harder over his mouth and crossing his chest with the other arm. His nostrils flare and he swallows several times, Adam’s apple bobbing. He shows every sign of being upset and vastly discomforted. It takes a moment for him to look back. “Is that…” he says carefully, then pauses to swallow again. “Is that how you want to live your life?”

“Of course not! But it’s still great sex, as long as you keep your mind and heart out of it. What choice do I have? I don’t do celibacy well, and since my retirement I can no longer keep a boyfriend.” Tom turns his head and looks out of the side window, staring at the bark of a nearby tree.

“In an ideal world, how… what would you want?”

“In an ideal world, I’d be straight,” Tom says without turning his head back.

“And if you weren’t? If you didn’t have to hide. What would you want?” John persists.

Tom closes his eyes. “I’d want what I have with Grace, but for real. Sharing a home with my boyfriend. Cuddle on the couch, bicker about mundane things. Romance and intimacy. Holding hands. Adopt a kid or two. Not now, obviously. I’m too old to start _that_ shit over. But I’d want everything a real, loving relationship entails.”

“Would you cheat?”

And isn’t that an odd question. Tom turns to look at John, but can’t read his expression. “It’d take a very special person, or reason, for me to cheat when I’m in a relationship like that. My first boyfriend, in Germany, that was drama to high heavens. He cheated when he was drunk. But he was jealous like no other, so I confess, I may have cheated a time or two, to trigger that jealousy, when I was afraid of losing him. We broke up and got back together so often I don’t even count the breakups. But since then… I’ve only cheated on one boyfriend, and that’s because the second love of my life made a call. I’m a slave to his whims. I’d cheat on anybody for a moment with him. Which leads me to an even worse sin of mine. That woman I told you about? That I can’t get over? Obviously not a woman. His name is Sam.”

Tom drags a hand over his face then stares at John coldly. “Pay attention to me now, because this will make you lose every semblance of respect for me. I met Sam in a hotel bar when I was thirty three. You ever met someone who could have stepped straight out of your perfect fantasy? Well, that was him for me. My dirtiest, most shameful fantasies come to life. He was gorgeous, confident, charming, cocky. We got to talking and he propositioned me. I couldn’t believe my luck. He looked young, eighteen, nineteen perhaps. So I asked his age, just to be on the safe side. You know what he said? _Sixteen_. And I still went through with it.”

“Dammit! Fuck’s sake, Tommy! What were you thinking?” John stares at him in outraged shock, shaking his head in denial.

“I figured it was a once in a lifetime thing. I certainly didn’t expect to fall helplessly in love with the kid. Nor for him to program in his number in my phone when I was sleeping. We’ve met up a few times a year since then, right up until my retirement. And I don’t regret a single moment of it. That little shit is firmly in control and he knows it,” Tom provokes. 

John’s wavering between rage and something else, desperation perhaps. “It’s legal in some states. You’ve gone younger?”

“No! Jesus. Not even I am that perverted. What? Are you _defending_ me?”

“No. Fuck you. No.” John gets out of the car again. This time he just stops outside with his back turned, fists his hair and breathes heavily for a while. Then he snaps around. “What are you trying to say? You're strictly into teenagers? Is that it?”

“ _No._ I'm strictly into men! I've been with maybe four guys under the age of twenty. I usually go for guys my own age, like yourself. I'm trying to tell you I'm a lost cause. Thoroughly depraved with no hope of salvation. I'm a despicable creature, John. Marked for Hell since the day I was born. My sexual and romantic preferences forbids me to ever walk in God's light. My life is a lie, and you have no business respecting me whatsoever.”

John turns around again, hiding his face. 

Not that Tom has the faintest clue what's going on behind John’s scowl. He’s asking the wrong questions, ignoring the worst parts. Like Tom being a homosexual isn’t that big of a deal in comparison. 

John gets back in the car and glares defiantly at Tom. Out of left field he orders “Kiss me.”

“ _What?_ ”

“You heard me. Kiss me,” he repeats, raising his chin. 

“Why? So you can go to hell with me? Are you friggin mad?!” Tom’s getting angry and distressed now. Not following the chain of events _at all_.

“The way you've whored yourself around, it shouldn't be that big of a deal for you. I want to know what has my best friend so fucked up, destroying what was perfect. So get to it and _fucking kiss me already!_ ” John meets anger for anger. Mad and determined. 

Fuck him. He can suit himself. 

Tom’s twists around and leans in, going for it. The hell with everything. 

John tenses up, mouth compressed to a thin line, and presses himself backwards in the seat.

Tom jerks back, ire rising like a hissing cobra. “ _Screw you_ , John! I may be depraved, but even I have limits! I have never, and will never force myself on someone. _Never!_ If you intend for me to do that, you might as well spit in my face and call me all the disgusting things I've heard all my life. Beat me up and be done with it! You want me to kiss you? _Fine_. I've been gagging to do that since forever. But if I kiss you, you kiss me back or you're no better than the coach that raped me.” Tom delivers his tirade with bitter anger, almost getting tears in his eyes again, but from the anger, not shame and sadness. 

John holds his hands up in surrender. “Alright, _alright_. Let’s do this. Come on, kiss me.”

Tom scrutinies him, scowling. Everything about this is wrong. But he’s about to die anyway. 

He leans in a second time with some apprehension. But this time John gets something determined over him, and leans in to meet him. Tom reaches out to cup his cheek tenderly. He’s getting this like one last wish. A condemned man's last meal. He'll kiss John the way he wants to, with all the love he feels. He closes his eyes, can't bear to see John’s face lest he spoils the pretense.

Their lips meet softly. John’s not tense like he’s expecting. He parts his lips, and Tom honestly can't say who’s the one to make it to something beyond chaste. John tastes so good, and the kiss is _perfect_. Pretending it's real isn’t hard at all. He scrapes his nails in the back of John’s neck, caresses his jaw and cheekbone with his other hand. The kiss turns passionate, yet remains unhurried. It sets off butterflies and fireworks in every cell of Tom’s body.

Tom’s been told he's a great kisser all his adult life. That doesn’t have to mean anything. Everyone kisses differently. Sometimes you're just not compatible. Not so in this case. They go together like it's meant to be. Clicking into place. John’s arm come around his shoulders to cradle him, the other hand comes to rest on the side of his neck. Teeth nips at lips, tongues take turns at exploring, rather than try to dominate and force. Breaths start to get laboured. 

When Tom demanded that John kiss back, he took it to heart, proving he could fake it with the best of them. 

That’s why, when he’s suddenly shoved off with great force, slamming his back into the steering wheel, it takes him by complete surprise. 

He’s so shocked by the harsh rejection that he doesn’t even feel the pain of it.

John throws himself out of the car. “ ** _FUCK!!!_** ” he yells. “It’s just a fucking kiss!” Then kicks the side of the car with all his might, shattering Tom’s heart completely. 

“Not to me, you asshole! So you can just _fuck off_!” Tom shouts. That’s all he'd be able to get out before the lump in his throat chokes off any further words. 

John’s face contorts in a bitter frowning grimace. He storms off, back towards his car. Tom turns to watch him bypass the car and disappear down the bend of the dirt road. 

He’s gone, leaving Tom grief-stricken, unable to breathe. Hot tears well up, his stomach churns and clenches, he’s numb all over, feeling hot and cold at the same time. He gives in to the tears, grips the steering wheel, leans his forehead against it and bawls uncontrollably.

Minutes.

It takes minutes until the physical pain of the rejection lets up and lets him take deep shuddering breaths, calming down. John’s car is still there, but John’s nowhere to be seen.

He knew this would happen.

He _knew_.

It feels like he’s been flung down a bottomless pit consisting of nothing but pain and darkness.

It’s time.

With shaky hands he reaches for the glove compartment and takes out his gun case and the bullets. He opens the gun case, carefully taking out the gun. He strokes the custom grip on it with its black cross. It’s beautiful.

He hates it. 

“It’s time for you to serve your purpose,” he tells the gun. 

He loads it slowly, looking at each bullet before entering it in the mag. Only one will be his bane, but he fills the magazine nevertheless.

His hands are no longer shaking.

This is what he came here to do.

He makes sure the safety is off and raises the gun to his temple.

He closes his eyes.

He wonders if it will hurt.

He takes deep breaths. Preparing himself mentally to lift his finger from the grip to the trigger.

He starts counting down, determined to do it on one.

10

9

8

7

6

5

4

3

The car door is ripped open and the gun yanked out of his hand. “ **WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! ARE YOU FUCKING _INSANE_???** ” John shouts at him, eyes wide in horror and dismay, face as streaked by drying tears as Tom’s own. He’s holding the gun by the barrel, away from Tom. “Jesus Christ, Tommy! **NO!** ” He pushes the button to drop the mag and deftly pushes out bullet after bullet. “You’re not allowed to opt out! Fuck! Tommy you _fucking idiot_! You can’t just spring this on me, and then blow your brains out, you selfish fucking dick! I’ll never forgive you if you do!” John spins around and throws the gun with all the power and muscle memory technique he can muster, straight into the woods. The gun flies far into the woods before hitting a tree and falling into the underbrush. 

Tom’s too shocked, too stunned―both from the abrupt abortion of his attempt, the scare, and the devastating grief on John’s face―to properly register where it lands. 

“What kind of superhuman do you think I am?? You honestly think I can figure this shit out in _three fucking days_???” John continues. “Fuck you, Tommy! You put this ball in motion, you **owe me** to stick around to see where it lands! **YOU OWE ME THAT MUCH!** ” John fists his hair and pulls, face twisting into grief and anger, tears welling up in his eyes. “If you chicken out now, Tom, I swear to God, I’ll kill you!” 

John stares at Tom as if he’s expecting an answer.

Tom couldn’t speak if he wanted to.

A sob tears out of John and he turns, stalking away, bending his head down.

Tom remains sitting, heart racing, eyes wide. Numbstruck. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registers John’s car starting up and leaving.

After that… Tom honestly couldn’t tell what happens. Two hours later he’s in a store buying eggs. He can’t remember getting there, or where he’s been or what he’s done between the moment John left him and this moment in the store. He’s shaken. ‘ _Shit, I almost died. Shit, I almost died,_ ’ pulsates as a mantra in his head with every beat of his heart. All he knows is that his gun is still missing, probably still somewhere in the deep woods.

Coming home, he smiles, and nobody notices what a close call it was.

John wants him to face the consequences? He’ll do that. He’ll stick around. Because he doesn’t think he can muster the courage to fail a third attempt to take his own life, no matter how painful it’s going to be to face this down…

* * *


	30. A Wall Between Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom's depressed, walking on needles, waiting to be outed. He can't wrap his head around the questions John asks him. They make no sense to him. All he knows, is that there's a wall between them, and he's lost his best friend as well as got his heart broken...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I thought I was writing this story for the benefit of one, maybe two people. Thank you all for commenting on the last chapter!!! It made me very happy to see that there's so many of you reading a side story that is so centered around OCs. :') <3

## September 2014

Tom’s scared shitless of going to church. Certain that John would have told somebody by now. But - nothing. In church, John is all smiles and polite small talk. He’s as relaxed as always when speaking with Noah and Grace, but when he’s talking to Tom… it’s like there’s an invisible wall between them. 

After the sermon when people are mingling before heading home, Tom goes to the side to smoke a cigarette. John comes to join him, standing side by side, but not as close as usual. The added distance feels like a gaping abyss.

“I want you to answer a couple of questions, Tom. I need you to be honest with me,” he says, looking straight ahead at the mingling crowd, not at Tom.

“Go ahead. I have nothing more to lie to you about.” Tom doesn’t look at John either. He aches at the new distance between them.

“Your family. Do they know?”

Tom shakes his head and takes a drag on his cigarette. “No.”

Both Tom and John nods and smiles at someone walking by, greeting them. They remain silent until the person is out of earshot. John speaks up again. “Justin. He’s gay too?”

“No. Bi. That’s why his parents brought him here.”

“Good riddance to them.”

“Amen,” Tom agrees. They share a side eyed look and a small quirk of a smile, united by their similar opinions on the matter. Tim and Margaret had put their house up for sale within a week of their public humiliation at church. Now they had moved, not leaving a forward address. Although the victory felt good, it also scares Tom and fills him with guilt. Because that fate and worse awaits his own family when John drops the bomb. Tom almost pleads to John to spare Justin the fate of being outed, but he bites his tongue. The boy had been warned. Not only that, he can’t for his life imagine John harming the boy. He just can’t. It would be an insult to John to bring it up.

They smoke in silence for a while longer. They stand so they see each other out of the corner of their eyes, but neither looking at each other. Tom merely mimics John, because it’s too painful to look at John and see that the man he’s in love with can’t bear to look at him.

“So… Everything you said to me, every story you’ve told me about girlfriends and hookups… did you just make it up?” John asks after a while.

“Exchange ‘she’ for ‘he’, and every word is true.”

“Everything?” John asks and finally turns his head to look at him, neck bent and eyebrows raised inquisitively.

“I hate lying, John. Hate it,” Tom answers and turns his head to meet John’s gaze. Right now, the wall’s down. John’s face is open, like it is when he’s genuinely listening. He’s so handsome it hurts and sets off a burst of butterflies.

Then John looks away and nods to himself. “Good day, Tom,” he says and walks away without a backward glance. 

Tom feels like crying. They’re worlds apart. John’s lost to him.

The following week Tom spirals down deep into depression. He gets up in the morning and eats breakfast with Grace and Noah, but when they leave he goes straight back to bed, exhausted from pretending to be well. It’s good for his leg if nothing else. He hovers in the twilight zone between sleep and wakefulness, dozing off for twenty minutes at a time, tops. At least he gets _some_ sleep. He has a lot of nightmares he can’t remember when he wakes up. He can’t shut his brain off. The longing for John is a physical ache. His body's constantly filled with worms of anxiety. Some of the time he worries, building scenarios in his head of what will happen when he’s outed, some of the time he wallows in memories of time spent together with John. Then there’s the kiss…

He can’t help daydreaming too.

The ideal world John asked him about… he can see it for his inner eye. They would have met in high school like they did. Only, it would not have been shameful and forbidden, and John would have been into him. That mutual admiration from afar? The wanting to get to know each other? John would have had a crush too. But if it wasn’t forbidden, Tom would have been braver. They would have talked. John is a ‘Just do it’ kind of guy. He puts his mind to something, he makes it happen. Like studying with Justin. He wasn’t all talk. So they would have ended up on a date. Their first kiss would probably have happened in Tom’s car. Or behind school where pupils smoked. It would have been so awkward at first, but then just as perfect as it was. They would have gone steady, then married. Tom thinks John would be the one to ask. Tom would have bought a ring, but chickened out time after time. When John’s arm got fucked up, Tom would have been there for him…

Tom gets lost in these daydreams, only to get ripped back into reality. It’s a disease of mind. John’s not sick like he is.

Tom thinks a lot about the kiss. Mostly, he can’t understand _why_ John demanded it. He drifts in wonder of how perfect it was, just to remember the feeling of the rejection afterwards.

He cries a lot.

No. He cries _a lot_.

Noah’s a good boy. He calls home to inform where he’s going to be after school if he doesn’t come straight at home. When Tom hears him coming home he rolls out of bed, takes a quick shower, and dons his ‘everything’s fine’-mask. If Noah doesn’t come home until late, he doesn’t get out of bed at all.

Grace comes down to him one evening. He’s lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks softly. 

“Does it seem like it?” he answers without looking at her. 

He feels her shift from compassion to ire. “You know what? Screw you, Tom. From now on you get up in the morning and you leave the house. I don’t care what you do, as long as you don't lie in here, wasting away.” She turns around and stalks back up again. 

So the next day he leaves to go search for his gun. It hits him it could be found by a child, and the possible consequences of that gives him chills.

It takes him three days of scouring the woods (paired with frequent breakdowns to cry) until he finds it. Without a silver detail on his custom grip, glinting in the sun, he might never have found it.

Holding the gun in his hand again… the pull is still there. The pull of freedom. Relief. But he sees John’s distraught face in his mind, yelling ‘You put this ball in motion, you owe it to me to stick around and see where it lands!’

He won't do it. John wants to hold his faith in his hands? He’s earned it.

Church on Sunday is a repeat of last Sunday. Except this time John is the one to go to the side to smoke. He catches Tom's gaze and does a little nod to the side, asking Tom to join him.

Tom takes up the same place as the last time, hating the invisible wall between them. 

“Everyone lusts after young people, Tom. We’re being conditioned to do so by society. It’s normal to want to roll in the hay with a nice girl… or person, I suppose, who is 19, 20, 25, whatever,” John begins, then pauses to take a drag of his cigarette. He isn't looking at Tom, and his voice is calm and low. He lets the smoke out before continuing. “I'm not guilt free. If a young woman has showed interest in me when I've met her in a bar, or club, I've gone for it. But that’s it. We're talking about young adults. People old enough to fight wars, vote, have families of their own… Personally, I find no big fault in it, if both parties are willing and there's no power leverage involved.” He side eyes Tom, whose cheeks are burning with shame by now. Tom’s looking at his feet. Can’t meet his eyes. John sighs. “But sixteen… that's on the brink of childhood. Some guys at that age… they’re just kids. Body and mind. I don’t understand it.”

Tom remains quiet in the pause John leaves for him to speak. What can he say? He’s right. It’s beyond merely questionable. He’s been horrified, guilt stricken, and ashamed at himself for even jerking off to the fantasy of being with someone that young, before he even met Sam. His only defense had been, that it was just a fantasy, happening in his mind alone. There’s no defense for acting upon it. One could argue that two or three years doesn’t make that much of a difference, or that it’s legal in some states. But at that age, it made a huge difference. Most of Jessi and Noah’s friends at the age of sixteen, still looked and acted way too young to stir any want in him. He isn’t attracted to _children_ , no matter their age. 

When John realise that no answer is forthcoming, he speaks up again. “So apparently, according to the internet, if you experience a big enough trauma, especially as a child or in your teens, it’s possible to get stuck in the mindset of that age mentally. Which explains why you'd go for a sixteen year old, considering your rape and all. You could simply be attracted to guys the same age as you were back then, when it happened. It’s an explanation. Not an excuse, but an explanation…” John pauses to take a drag of his cig, hold the smoke in, then blow the smoke out downward, looking at his feet.

Tom hadn’t thought of that. He’d never thought to analyze his perversion, beyond angsting over that he had it to begin with. He wonders if this is something John knew, or if he’d actually sat down and researched it. Why even bother? Like he said; It’s an explanation, not an excuse to act upon it. 

John side eyes him. “Thing is, Tom, I don’t want to look at you like a psychological case study.” He pauses again to take another drag on his cigarette. “Tell me about Sam. Why did you meet up with him again, after the first time?”

It’s a valid question. Once, and it never happened. Twice, and it’s a habit. “Sam's a special little snowflake,” Tom mutters sarcastically. He doesn’t want to hear Sam and his affair get dragged in the dirt. It’s not like he doesn’t know it's wrong. But to him, it’s still one of the most beautiful things he’s had in his life.

John rolls his eyes, then plasters on a smile for the benefit of someone walking by. “You said he looked older, but young enough for you to doubt his age…”

“He was almost as tall as I am back then. So he was tall, lean… had a confident demeanor few teens can brag about. A teenager shouldn’t be as self-assertive as he was. I confess, I did find the risk of going to jail exciting, but I wouldn’t have risked it for just any generic sixteen year old. The kid… my breath caught in my throat when he walked in. No lie. He was perfect. You want to know why I met up with him again, I’d have to tell you in detail what happened in my hotel room that night,” Tom provokes.

“Did you ever consider that he might have the same experiences as you? And that’s why he went for someone your age?” John asks with a hint of anger and reproach. 

“I did. I asked about it the second time we met. I could never consider being what the coach was to me, to someone else. He assured me he’d never been sexually abused. The kid has baggage, but not the same baggage as me. He also had the emotional and mental maturity of someone far older, even if he used the language of a teenager. Otherwise I doubt I could have fallen in love with him.”

John’s jaw muscles clenches and unclenches. None of them are looking directly at each other. “And did you consider the damage it could do to him if you were found out and he was outed?”

“The only one he didn't want to find out he was bi, was his brother. Apart from that, he was already out and proud. High school royalty, like myself. Straight A student, athlete. We talked about the risks involved. He knew to keep it a secret, but I think that was mainly out of concern for my situation.” Tom smiles to himself, can't keep the pride off his face. “The kid, he’s bold as brass, John. He came out on live television, right in front of his brother. I wish I had his courage.”

John frowns bemusedly. “On live television…?”

“In a post-game interview,” Tom says. 

John blinks confusedly before his eyes widen in realisation. “Christ. You kept calling him ‘the kid’, and I imagined a small, feminine boy, not a 6’4 giant with catty eyes and sass coming out of his ears.”

“Shit.” Constant sleep deprivation makes it hard to think straight. “You know who it is,” Tom states. Of course he knows. John watches sports news on TV, if that's the only thing he watches. And in the mornings he'll snag the sports pages right out of your hands if you happen to take it first. Sam made headlines with his stunt. Tom hadn’t thought of that. Hadn't thought at all.

“I do. You wouldn’t happen to be the mysterious ‘T’ that gave him the lucky charm?” John asks, turning his head slightly to look at Tom.

Tom nods, blows out smoke and scrapes at the ground, studying his foot with great interest. “I never played a game without that rabbit's foot. Found it on the ground when I was twenty one. Sent it to him in a goodbye letter after I was cut.”

John’s quiet, with a closed off, thoughtful expression. Tom keeps quiet too. Waiting. 

“So… Sam. He’s the only one… That’s the only time you've committed statutory rape?”

Tom swallows dryly, flushing in shame again. Labelling it like that… it’s the harsh, merciless truth. He nods. “Yes.”

“Will you ever do it again?”

“No.” Of that, Tom is certain. It was meant to be a one time only thing. It would have been that, if he hadn’t fallen in love. He reminds himself that Sam would have shot himself, if it wasn’t for their relationship, and Sam didn’t really want to die, or he wouldn’t have made the call to Tom in the first place. So however bad it sounded in theory, their relationship was still something beautiful in reality. 

John nods sharply once, blowing out smoke. He drops his cigarette and squished it with the toe of his shoe. “Alright then. Have a good day, Tom,” he says and walks off without a backward glance. 

Tom dwells on the line of questions for days. Something that strikes him about John’s reaction both about Sam and Justin, is that he seems to care about their wellbeing first and foremost. He’s mindful of the consequences to the youths, that comes from Tom’s actions. If anything, it makes Tom love him even more. 

Sleep remains a fickle thing. Tom is heartsick to the core, combined with the constant anxiety and fear that today is the day John would tell someone. Every day is too long, every encounter with other people nerve wracking. He leaves home only to park somewhere remote where he waits until he can go home again. Drifts in and out of sleep behind the steering wheel of the parked car, never reaching the deep sleep he sorely needs.

Noah notices that something is wrong due to a small detail of behavioural change, rather than seeing behind the mask Tom nurtures so carefully in his vicinity. He asks Tom about it one day at dinner. “Dad… why don’t you read, or watch the news any more?”

A tiny, itty bitty detail. “Is it important that I do?”

“The world could be ending, and you wouldn’t even know,” Noah states.

Tom chuckles and puts down his utensils, meeting Noah’s gaze. “Son,” he says, “if the world is _truly_ ending, I'd notice it sooner or later.”

Noah sniggers. “Yeah, okay. But you’re missing important things.”

Tom is on the verge of giving a bullshit answer. But then he looks at his son’s earnest face and… he’s tired of lying all the time. Noah turns eighteen in three months. It’s unfair to unload on his son, but it’s unfair to lie to him too. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Noah… I don’t know if you’ve noticed… but I’m not very happy at the moment.” It’s the understatement of the century.

“Yeah… I kinda figured.”

“It shows, huh?”

“Not. Not really... But You and John have hung out, acting like dorks, laughing all the time. And now he’s not here anymore. Plus, you barely speak in church. What are you fighting about?”

“It’s between him and me.”

“Alright. But what’s that got to do with reading the newspaper?”

“I’m… I don’t have much of an emotional filter right now, to be perfectly honest with you. So when I see or read about bad things happening to people… I don’t know how to explain it, but it breaks my heart too much, and I can’t, can’t distance myself from it. At all. It’s like everything I read, or see, happens to me directly, not to someone else. So until I stop being sad, I’ll avoid the news,” Tom explains. He downplays his depression, yet explains his avoidance of the news with complete veracity.

Noah looks concerned, studying him. Then he nods. “I think I get it. It gets to me too, bad things happening to other people. I’ll tell you if there’s anything in the news you have to know about, so you don’t have to read through it yourself.”

It makes Tom feel guilty. He doesn’t want to be burden. “You don’t have to do that.”

Noah perks back up. “It’s no problem. Jessi used to screen for me too.” He shrugs it off. “I read the news anyway. You going to enter any shooting competitions again soon? I’d love to come watch,” he says, changing the subject.

That brief exchange has two consequences. Noah, bless his heart, screens the news for him. But not the way he’d expect. Instead Noah starts showing him the occasional article or news clip of good things happening. A severely disabled kid who gets a specially trained dog and suddenly can live life again, puppies getting rescued and getting loving forever homes, scientist stumbling on a thriving colony of a species thought extinct, a homeless man winning the lottery. Things that warms the heart. The second consequence is that Tom goes back to the shooting range now that it’s open again. His son may be smarter than he seems, because it gives Tom something to focus on and helps numb the gaping hole of sorrow in his chest somewhat, at least during the hours he’s shooting.

Another week passed and another Sunday. It’s physically painful to see John. He’s so handsome. He’s lost weight. Not much, but since he’s obviously still working out, the comfort weight is melting off him, getting him that perfect shape. His smile is as dazzling as ever. Tom frequently catches John looking his way, but anytime John sees him looking he hastily looks away. After the sermon when it’s time to put on a smile and act for the crowd, Tom spots John and Noah in deep conversation on the parking lot. It looks quite serious. John lifts his head and looks right at him, expression unreadable while Noah’s talking, and Tom’s heart rate spikes. It’s Tom’s turn to avert his eyes and turn his back, hiding his fear that John is telling Noah.

Tom strikes up a conversation with Cathy about the sermon. Unlike John, her smile is visibly strained. She’s struggling to keep her mask intact. Tom guesses the divorce battle is in full swing, and John is fighting like a champ. When John has made his mind up about something, he’s full speed ahead. He’s the kind of man who weighs his options, considers all possibilities, doesn’t make rash decisions, but when a decision is made, he goes for it and takes it to the end of the line. Tom thinks that no matter how ugly the fight gets, it can only end with John as a free man. 

Tom goes to smoke, same place as the previous Sundays. John shows up out of nowhere and lights a cigarette of his own. And like previous Sundays, he’s facing forward, not looking at him. “Noah tells me that you haven’t been drinking or taken painkillers lately. Is that true?” he asks.

“Yes.”

John nods to himself, considering. “And why aren’t you taking your pain meds?”

“I’ve been resting a lot. My leg is barely bothering me. And emotionally, I doubt anything short of heroine would numb what I’m feeling at this point.” Tom’s pulse is racing. What else had Noah told John?

John purses his lips. “If you say so. But if your legs start aching, you take your pills. That’s an order.” John’s voice is calm but stern and impersonal.

Tom snorts, shakes his head bitterly and looks away, turning his head as not to see John at all. “Sure. Whatever you say.” 

“Good. Now. How much do I owe you for the damage I did to your car?”

Tom’s startled enough to snap right back to look at John with a confused frown. “You don’t owe me anything. Why would you even think you do?”

“Because I damaged it. Granted, it’s only cosmetic damages, but it lowered the resell value, if nothing else.” 

Tom hates the factual and impersonal tone. He almost flicks his cigarette away and stalks away. It’s torture, this distance between them. Instead he turns to face John’s side. “I don’t want your friggin money, John. You owe me nothing. Never have, never will. You want to buy yourself out of any strings you think I may have attached to you? Forget it. I don’t have any. I’m not vindictive, nor do I hold onto people who wants nothing to do with me. You think you’re the first person to break my heart? The first one to reject me because of the abomination that I am? I wished you’d directed that violence towards me, not the car, so the physical pain would match the pain within. But I care jack shit for the materialistic damage. I’ll get that stupid car fixed. I’ll never hold you responsible for it. You can get it in fucking writing if you want. You fear any repercussions from my side? There will be none. So you can just fuck off and be free― _aw, shit._ ” Tom quickly turns his back to the wall, pressing a thumb and a forefinger to his eyelids to try to prevent tears from coming. This is not the time and place to lose his composure.

John’s breathing more heavily, but otherwise shows no sign of being rattled by Tom’s outburst. He remains standing, stoic, smoking his cigarette, looking outward.

Tom takes a few deep breaths and gets himself under control. Nevertheless he doesn’t turn around. People may think whatever they will. So he and John aren’t friends at the moment? What of it? 

“I’m not free of sins…” John begins after an eternity. “Back in college… a lot of my depression manifested as anger. I had a hair trigger temper. Not a good combination with alcohol. I nearly ended up killing someone. If my friends hadn’t pulled me off the guy… But they did.” John tilts his head upward, eyes moving back and forth as if he’s looking at a discomfortable memory. “It happens that I still have nightmares about what I did. The guy was unconscious and I didn’t stop kicking him. I never even saw the legal consequences of it. The guy was blackout drunk to begin with and my friends were the only witnesses. They wouldn’t talk. It hounds me, that I was capable of doing something like that. I swore to never let it happen again.”

“You ever touch Cathy?” Tom asks, watching John and taking a drag of his cigarette.

“No. The few times my temper got the better of me, I’ve gone for dead things, like your car. And I’m not like those assholes you read about that pulls the ‘look what you made me do’-routine. I take responsibility for my actions. Nowadays I’m in control of my temper. Can even take a few hits without losing it. What you saw, was an anomaly.”

Tom lets out his smoke. “Why are you telling me this?”

John turns his head, meets his gaze and holds it. Tom honestly can’t figure out what’s going on behind those beautiful eyes of his.

The moment drags. If John is trying to wordlessly convey something, it’s lost on Tom.

Then John averts his gaze, drops his cigarette and squishes it. “Have a good day, Tom,” he says and leaves.

Tom turns around to watch him go, utterly confused.

* * *

It was bound to happen sometime. With all the time Tom spends at the shooting range, it was only a matter of time before he’d run into John there. Tom’s by a lane, firing off a round. John comes walking, talking to somebody. He stops and raises his hand in goodbye to his companion, making a parting joke, then starts walking again turning his head forward. Then he spots Tom and stops dead, blood draining from his face.

Tom is wearing high tech hearing protection―the kind that allows you to hear lower sounds but mutes bangs―so he’d heard John’s voice far earlier than John discovered him. His pulse is racing. He lowers his gun, turns his head and winks, then raises his gun to fire off the last bullets in the mag.

John stands still for another moment, visibly unsettled. When Tom lowers his gun again John snaps out of it, but he’s still tense, with a grim facial expression when he walks up to take the lane beside Tom’s.

“I was wondering when you’d show up,” Tom says offhandedly, recharging his gun, his attention on what his hands are doing.

“You son of a bitch, you went back for it?!” John hisses at him.

Tom turns his head and smirks at him. “You didn’t expect me to leave it there for children or criminals to find, did you?” He tuts and gives John an ‘Oh, please’-look, then looks down on what he’s doing again. 

John turns around and starts readying his gun. He’s not focused on what he’s doing. Head bent, his eyes moving rapidly with whatever agitated thoughts he’s having. 

Tom’s chaotic inside does not match his exterior. Maybe it’s because John’s so distressed. Or maybe because this is the Devil’s playground, and it fits with what he sees himself as. For whatever reason, he manages to act with lofty, arrogant swagger. 

Tom fires off another round before John’s got his own gun in order and fires.

Every shot goes wide.

Tom chuckles and tuts. “What was that, John?” he says and gestures at the target, looking at John with a playful glint in his eyes. “I'm well on my way of becoming a renowned state champion. When people ask me who taught me to shoot, I'll point at you and say, ‘That guy taught me all he knows.’ You know what they'll say?” Tom fights to keep a grin off his face. “They'll say ‘Wow. That must have been a quick lesson.’”

John’s lips twitch, fighting a smile. He makes an amused noise at the ribbing, then gets himself under control, giving Tom a dark look. 

“This is how it's done, sweetheart. Watch and learn…” Tom says with a lofty smirk. He raises his gun and fires. Even before he pulls the trigger, he knows he’s going to hit where he aims. He feels John watching. Every single bullet hits bull's eye. He lowers the gun, turns his head towards John and waggle his eyebrows teasingly. 

John makes a dissatisfied noise and reloads, then fires again with a slightly better result than before. At least most of the bullets hit the target this time. 

“No, no, no. Come on, John. You’re yanking the trigger. You know better. You've got to be gentle. And your stance is all wrong,” Tom complains in mock despair. He leans his forearm on the edge of the glass lane divider, crosses his ankles, and puts his other hand in his pocket, thumb sticking out, framing his crotch. He’s not holding back on the sassy flirtiness now. Maybe others will get that it’s real, maybe they'll think it’s mockery. Who cares? “Maybe I should come correct your stance for you,” he says with a lopsided smirk. “Sidle up behind you… use my foot to separate your legs, a hand on your hips to turn it right… put my hands over yours to get your grip right, my chin on your shoulder…”

John’s staring at him like he’s grown horns. There’s a tick by his eye, his jaw is clenching, and his cheeks colouring slightly. “Stop. Tom, just stop. It’s best for everyone involved if you just keep your distance.”

Tom snorts and rolls his eyes. “I hate to be the one to point out the obvious, but if it's distance you want, _you_ chose the wrong lane,” he says and steps back into his lane. 

He loads his gun and ignores John on the other side of the glass. It’s not that the rejection doesn’t sting, but this time he expects it. Being in the middle of a perfect kiss is another matter. He fires off a round, then another one. Since the renovations they use GlowShot reactive targets. Every shot produces a coloured ring around the hit, different colours depending on where on the target you hit. Not only that, computer technology registers exactly where and when you hit. There’s a little computer screen by each lane, where you can see a computerised target, your hits, and how much time passed between each impact. If you wanted, you could get a print out for your lane in the reception when you were finished. They had also put up screens in the common area for when they held competitions. That way the audience needn’t risk their hearing to watch. Tom liked the system. He didn’t know how it worked, but he wasn’t interested in finding out. The targets were still paper, and needed replacement after a couple of rounds. Tom didn’t bother. His target was long since shredded in the middle by the hits, but the computer screen told him exactly where he’d hit and it was enough for him.

John shoots a round with better results than his previous tries.

Tom can practically feel the horns grow out of his forehead. He leans on the divider, sticking his head into John’s lane. “I guess you coming over for some Netflix and chill, is out of the question then, huh?” he jokes.

John chortles before he can stop himself. He lowers his gun and turns around, with incredulous mirth in his eyes, staring at Tom’s shiteating grin as if he can’t believe he just said that. Then all the mirth snaps out of existence to be replaced by anger. “Oh you son of a bitch,” he says coldly. “You must have thought that was funny, huh? Must have laughed your ass off behind my back, mocking me doubly for my ignorance. Yeah. Real fucking funny.”

Tom’s own ire rises to meet John’s. “Funny? Bittersweet more like it. You’re not the butt end of that joke, _I_ am. Double pun intended since I’m the one getting fucked by this, and I’m a top. So you can laugh, because any time we joked about it, I was the one wanting to make reality of it, knowing it could never happen. Knowing that the moment you found out, we were no longer talking ‘friendzoned’, but disgust and contempt? Yeah, it’s a real funny joke, falling in love with a straight guy―“

John interrupts him. “Stop fucking with me!” he hisses. Both of them are keeping their voices down, but the anger is still visible to anyone who’d care to look.

“How on Earth am I fucking with you? You think I am what I am on purpose, just to be a little shit?” Tom says, stepping out fully from the divider to face John full on.

“That’s not what I mean. Don’t say you’re in love with me, when you’ve already told me you’re not,” he says, face contorted in bitter anger and pokes Tom in the chest with a finger. 

Tom’s eyebrows shoots upward in complete surprise. “Wha―“

“Boys!” a man named Harvey calls out from further down the lanes. “No fighting with loaded guns around. Y’all gonna argue, lock the guns into storage and take it outside.”

Both Tom and John raises a hand his way. “Sorry. We’re good over here. Don’t worry,” John calls back and turns to face his lane again.

Tom copies him, loads his gun, gets into stance and fires a round at the same time as John. His shots are not perfect now. He’s preoccupied searching for a memory of saying something along those lines but comes up with blanks. He puts his gun down on the shelf in front of him and goes to stand by the edge of their divider again. “What are you talking about, John?” he asks with frustration, confusion, and a hint of annoyance. “I’ve never said that. When did I say that?”

John rolls his eyes, puts down his gun, and leans his back against the divider to the empty lane on the other side. He crosses his arms in front of his chest. “You said yourself that you can’t get over Sam. That you’re in love with him,” John says, fed up, sounding like he’s trying to explain something to someone too stupid to understand.

“So?”

“If you’re in love with him, you can’t be in love with me. It’s simple.”

“John. The human heart holds endless capacity for love. One love doesn’t cancel out another,” Tom says with a perplexed expression, eyebrows raised, stating something obvious to him.

John frowns with a troubled expression, pursing his lips. He scrutinises Tom’s open expression like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “So… what you’re saying is… you’re poly?”

“I’m what?” Tom asks, even more confused.

John makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Nevermind. Internet and it’s terminology. It’s a jungle and I haven’t even wrapped my mind around half of it yet. I need time.” He shakes his head and straightens up, putting his hands in his back pockets. “Tom. Not everyone is capable of falling in love with several people at once. Love them, yes. But being in love? No. For many of us it’s strictly one person at a time.” He leans back against the divider again and goes on. “We fall in love and once we find our soulmate or what you want to call it, and there’s nobody else for us until we die or fall out of love. The romantic saga we’re sold, about everlasting love, it’s a real thing to many of us.” John has calmed down now. He’s still troubled, but his demeanor has shifted into openly listening. 

This was one of the things Tom loved about him. About arguing with him. Their bickering and arguing was like waves on the ocean. Temper rising only to still again. Sometimes they couldn’t agree, but when John calmed down he’d listen, rather than listening for how to push his case.

“I know it’s real. Believe me, I hold those values too. But I don’t believe in soulmates. The very idea of one person, made especially to be with you, makes me uncomfortable.”

“Why?”

“Lots of reasons. Above all, it eradicates the notion of free will and implies we don’t have the right to ourselves, that we are _owned_. I firmly believe the only person whose life we have any rights over, is our own. If there’s just one person for us out there, that we are destined to be with and love, then that’s coercion. I’ve loved a lot of people in my days. Had a lot of crushes. Not been in love as many times, granted, but a few. Stefan and Sam are my biggest loves, and it’s possible that, had I lived in that ideal world you asked me about, I would have met one of them and never looked anyone else ever again. I wouldn’t have to. It’s even possible, in that ideal world, that it would have landed on you, since then the way you made my heart skip a beat already back in high school, wouldn’t have been something I’d have to shroud in shame and guilt.” John crosses his arms and ankles in front of him, looking at the floor as Tom speaks. 

Yet Tom goes on, unloading part of the chaos that’s inside of him. “But such world doesn’t exist, John. I’ve accepted that. My whole life, I’ve had to accept that any romantic or sexual notion I’ve ever had, is something abominable. Every time I give in to those inclinations, I’ve accepted that I have to hide it and carry the guilt of committing a sin so big, no good deed I’ve ever done will be great enough to balance the scales. I’ve been marked for Hell since my birth, due to this diseased heart of mine. It can’t be cured. _I_ can’t be cured. I could have chosen to be celibate. Drink myself senseless enough to bed my wife once or twice a year, as is my duty. Never let my eyes linger, deny to myself any inappropriate feelings. John, I’m not strong enough to do that. And, and, even then I’m not guaranteed a place in Heaven, if God chose to judge me by what’s in my heart, not by my actions. You should have let me pull the trigger, John. Even if you for some reason decide not to out me, it’s just a matter of time before somebody finds out. And when they do, it’ll be hell for my family. A former pro-athlete committing suicide is tragic, but common, and easily explained without my family being met with the disgust and bullying they’re going to face now, when I’m outed before I die. I live in constant fear. I don’t want them to have to suffer through that too.”

“A child who loses a parent to suicide is three times more likely to die by suicide themselves,” John states without looking up.

Tom frowns in annoyance. “Yes, well. It’s not going to happen now, is it? You told me to stick around.”

John’s eyes flick up to look at him for a beat before turning down towards the floor again. “So… when did you convince yourself you were in love with me?”

“Dammit, John!” Tom’s getting angry again, scowling, crossing his arms in front of himself. “Don’t be a total asshole about it. I get that my feelings for you makes you uncomfortable. But don’t invalidate me completely by acting like I don’t know how I feel about things. I haven’t _convinced myself_ of anything.”

John looked up at him the moment the tone of his voice changed. “It’s not just a straight boy kink, is it? Because if it is, I got to know.”

“Why is this even important to you? No. It’s not a kink thing. Screw you for even thinking that. My thing for your tattoo, that’s a kink. Same with Justin’s piercings. That’s a kink. The way I get butterflies in my belly when you smile at me? _Not_ a kink. My life’s been filled with ‘If onlys’ and ‘What ifs’ for a long time now. My crush on you came back when we started hanging out, not surprisingly, since you’re a handsome and charming man. It’s been growing and the better I got to know you, the more you let your guard down, the stronger I felt. I fell in love. Shit happens. It got to the point where I felt like a cheater by hooking up with Cal instead of spending time with you, despite knowing you and me would never happen. Of course, you _had_ to spot me giving him one last goodbye kiss. God must be laughing his ass off at me.” Tom shakes his head. “What else do you want to know? We can go somewhere private and talk, if you want the full 101 on my feelings for you. What do I know? Maybe you get an ego boost from it. Or maybe you just want to rub it in,” he says bitterly. It never even occurs to him to lie about it to save his own pride. There’s also a faint idea in the back of his mind, that maybe John will get so put off by hearing about it, that John will finally tells someone, so that he doesn’t have to wait in limbo anymore.

“I’m not going anywhere with you right now, where we don’t have several witnesses,” John informs him.

Tom’s stomach plummets, a ball of ice forming in it. He averts his gaze in shame and guilt. “Shit. I’m sorry. In my defense, I figured my days were numbered and I was inebriated or high. It’s not an excuse for sexual harassment, I know. I truly am sorry.”

“What? What are you― ? I don’t― Oh. Of course. You’d see it that way.” John looks skywards holding out his hands like he’s asking God for patience. He turns towards Tom. “Apology accepted. I forgive you. For whenever you think I've felt _harassed_. Get that out of your mind.” He turns to his lane, drags a hand over his face, then turns back towards Tom. “You know what? You’ve got some serious issues, Tommy. It’s starting to make sense to me _why_ now. You need to be fixed. But right now I have enough on my plate with my own issues. So we'll burn that bridge when we get there― “

“You mean ‘cross’,” Tom says. 

John’s lips curve up in a little smile. “Nope. In your case, the bridge needs to burn. Believe me.” John turns serious again. “But not now. Tom, I need time. It makes me physically ill to see that gun back in your hand. I want you to promise me you won’t kill yourself. _Promise_ me. Whatever happens. Whatever further damage holding on will cause. We'll get to your issues later.”

“I can’t be fixed.”

“ _God Dammit, Tommy!_ ” John exclaims angrily. 

“BOYS! What did I tell you?” Harvey calls out again when he hears John raise his voice. 

John holds up his hand in his direction in an ‘just a minute’ gesture, without taking his eyes off Tom. “Just fucking promise me, Tommy,” he pleads. 

It’s the pleading in his eyes that makes Tom give in, despite John’s refusal to understand that he can never be fixed. “Fine. I promise I won't kill myself.”

“Thank you,” John says, relieved. Then he turns to pack his gun into its case. “I need a smoke,” he mutters and turns to leave. 

Tom knows he’s not coming back. Fifteen minutes later someone else occupies John’s lane, confirming it.

After this John avoids him. On Sunday he comes to ask Tom one single question while they smoke. “Do I remind you of Sam?”

“Not even a little bit,” Tom answers. John nods thoughtfully, then walks away. 

Tom doesn’t see John at all after that. He stops coming to church. Cathy gives sketchy excuses about it. ‘John’s sick’, ‘John’s on a conference trip’, ‘John’s―‘... Tom doesn’t believe it for a minute. It’s over. He’s gone. 

Tom’s firmly sucked into the gaping black hole of despair John left in him.

He’s certain he's seen the last of John. Goes to show how much he knows…

* * *


	31. Shot Through The Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom flies to Louisiana to compete in a shooting competition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ToJo is a respectable ship now. It has a kissing gif. All respectable ships has to have one. ;)
> 
> **Warnings:**  
>  There's some major consent issues in this chapter.
> 
> Please, don't lose faith.

## October 2014

Noah comes to watch Tom compete, but when Tom decided to enter a competition out of state that'll force him to to be gone Saturday to Monday, Noah has to stay home. Tom flies to Louisiana and rents a car. It’s 60°F out, overcast, and everything is startling _green_. It’s easy to forget that not the whole country has been hit by the drought. Halfway to the motel it starts to drizzle. Tom has to park the car and just stand in the rain for fifteen minutes. 

He stays in his motel room. Doesn’t venture out to explore. Talks on the phone with Jessi. They don’t talk often, but she and Noah talk every day, and Noah will give partial updates at dinner. He’s happy that she’s doing so well, and mostly seems to call Grace or him for _their_ sake. She tells him she and Justin bought a car. An old clunker that ‘barely cost anything, daddy. I promise.’ Hah! Even junk cars cost money. But Jessi and Justin hangs out every weekend and commuting wasn’t as practical, since a return trip took nearly four hours. Now they’re taking turns having the car. Tom hasn’t heard from Justin in a while, which to him is a good thing. He thinks the boy’s moving on. 

Jessi’s happily talking about time spent with him during weekends and Tom realises they must be staying over at each other’s places. “Are you two sleeping together?” he blurts.

“No! Dad, I’ve told you, we’re just friends,” Jessi hastens to assure him.

“So where does he sleep when he comes over? Where do you sleep when you stay at his place?”

“Oh, you mean _sleep_ sleep? Eh-heh. Yes, we sleep in the same bed. But just sleep, okay? We’re not _doing_ anything. I’m not a slut, dad,” Jessi babbles nervously.

Tom chuckles. “Pumpkin, it’s okay. Even if you were doing more than just sleeping. I worry more about men taking advantage of you, than I worry about you keeping your hymen intact,” Tom says with a smile carrying through his voice. “...Not that I want graphic details, should you, you know,” he adds muttering, making Jessi giggle. He sighs. “Justin’s a good guy. There are worse choices you can make.”

“I _knooow_ ,” Jessi complains. “He’s great! He’d be a perfect boyfriend for me if I could just fall in love with him. Sadly, that isn’t happening. I mean, I love him to death. He’s the best friend I’ve ever had, and we talk about everything. Like, _everything_. But no. That last little spark isn’t there, you know? God, I wish it was!”

Tom is 110% sure they’re not talking about ‘everything’, or Jessi wouldn’t be quite as chipper in phone right now. “How is Justin? I haven’t heard from him in awhile.”

“He’s great. We study together every day, using Skype. It’s easier to focus with him, even if we’re not doing the same thing. He’s competing weekly now, winning anything he enters. You remember that he said he didn’t care about competing, as long as he got to swim? He’s full of shit! He loves it like nothing else. Like you were with your hockey.”

“He’s competing? Why hasn’t he said anything? I promised him I’d come watch.”

“Yeah, I know. He told me you’d said that. I don’t really know, dad. He says it would be a waste of money to travel three states for such small competitions. Personally I think he wants to surprise you all by qualifying for something really big, and that’s why he’s keeping it secret.”

“If this is your idea of keeping a secret, Jessi, you’re not doing a very good job of it,” Tom chastises with humour in his voice, inwardly wondering about Justin’s radio silence. It had seemed like it was very important to him that Tom came to watch.

Jessi giggles. “He hasn’t _said_ it’s a secret, or I wouldn’t have told you.”

They talk for a while longer, and when they hang up, Tom starts fretting. Is he doing right or wrong by meeting Justin’s radio silence with silence? Should he call to check up on him? Visit again? What’s the right course of action? _If_ Juss was getting over him, calling or visiting might push him right back to zero again. If not, the prolonged silence might be hurting the boy, thinking Tom didn’t give a shit about him. Nothing could be further from the truth, even if Tom’s care was of another nature than Justin wanted.

He writes a text to Justin. It takes him the better part of an hour of re-writing it, until finally he sends “You know I’d come cheer you on, if you just told me about it.”

The answer comes within minutes.

`**Justin:** I know, Sir. You weren’t supposed to know. I’m saving that for a big one.`

`**Tom:** It’s not a one-time offer, you know? `

`**Justin:**` ❤

`**Tom:** If you want me to come visit anyway, just say so. I’ll come.`

It’s not ideal. Tom doesn’t want to. He could tell himself it was for the sake of the boy, but he might end up using Juss like a floating device, and it wasn’t fair. The answer takes almost two hours to come.

`**Justin:** I do want you to come here, Sir. But I don’t want you to leave. Last time when you were here, I had trouble focusing on my studies when you left. I don’t want to be kicked off the team for flunking my studies.`

The answer feels honest and regretful. It both saddens Tom and warms his heart. 

`**Tom:** I’m proud of you for choosing your career, baby. If they’d taken hockey away from me at your age, I might have died.`

`**Justin:** Same.`

Tom sends one last goodnight text, then spends the rest of the evening staring at the ceiling, wondering why the hell he had thought it was a good idea to enter a competition in Louisiana. The loneliness is absolute. Not until he’s this far from home does he realise how much of a difference Grace and Noah makes. It’s the sounds of the house at home. Like hearing a flush in the pipes, the TV on in another room, the creaky floorboard just outside the toilet, the coffeemaker… Even when he’s lying in his bed or on the couch in the den, he still hears these things, knows that life goes on around him, or at the very least, people will come home in a few hours. Then, being by himself is a blessing. Here though, he’s not by himself―he’s _alone_. He’s not cut out for living alone.

It’s a decent motel room. He can’t complain about that, at least. Big bed, and the sheets both look and smell clean. The paintings on the walls are actual paintings of swamps and bayous―not prints―made by a local artist. The carpet isn’t _that_ stained, and the curtains are thick enough to send the the room into pitch darkness when you cut the light. The room holds a faint trace of stale smoke, since he chose a room that you’re allowed to smoke in. But the water pressure in the shower is amazing. There’s free WiFi and a modern TV, minibar, a desk, and two chairs. Plus the entrance to the room is straight to the parking lot, so there’s more privacy if you want to bring in a hookup you’d rather not parade before the front desk.

Nice or not, it’s still lonely.

Tom falls asleep around 3 AM, when a rainfall starts smattering against the window, soothing him.

The next day he _knows_ why he came here. It’s a huge competition he’s only just gathered enough points to qualify for with his latest win. He gets recognised three times. Twice as a hockey player, and once as a shooter. There’s a great hall filled with stands exhibiting and selling anything that has to do with guns. He jostles around and talks with people, picking up tips and tricks from other shooters, manufacturers, and other knowledgeable people. He buys some new equipment. 

There’s a fairly big audience, which gets his pulse jumping excitedly. When it’s his turn to shoot, he sweeps the onlookers one time to find a person to shoot for. He’s started doing that by default if Noah didn’t come along. Pick someone at random he wants to impress. There, in the crowd, he spots… he has to do a double take, but the person in the back is gone. His pulse is racing. He could have sworn he saw John. It’s nothing new. It’s been countless of times he's thought that he’s seen John just to take another look and realise it's just some guy with similar traits. But this time the guy is _gone_. 

Nobody but John would have reason to duck away, not wanting to be seen. 

_He’s here! He’s here! It has to have been him!_

_No. It can’t be him. Why would he come all across the country just to watch me?_

_It's him. I know it!_

His pining heart tells him it’s John, while his logic tells him he's imagining things. His heart was always the strongest of the two. 

He nails every shot. 

Even during the rapid fire round, which is his weakest suite, he outdoes himself. 

It’s the largest competition he’s won this far.

He searches the crowd afterwards, scouring the people in search of John. To no avail. If he hadn’t gone totally mad, and actually seen John, John’s long gone.

That evening sleep eludes him completely. Not even when it starts to rain around midnight, does he manage to doze off. 

At 2:17 AM there's an insistent knock on his door, jerking him out of his mournful reverie. His first thought is that something’s happened and someone needs help. Not until he’s holding the door handle does it occur to him that it might be a robber. 

It’s easy to be brave when you don’t want to live. 

He turns the lock and opens the door. 

His breath hitches. John’s standing outside, wet from the steady drizzle and drunk off his ass. He looks bitter and sad. His hair's in a disarray, just as his clothes, and his chin’s coated in stubble. He glares accusingly at Tom. 

“It _was_ you I saw,” Tom exclaims, inwardly cursing himself for the burst of happiness in his chest, when it's so obvious that whatever reason John has to be here, it isn't good.

“Yep. Wasn’t s’posed to. I fucked up. Congrats. Brilliant as usual,” John answers, words slurred and tone as bitter as his face. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Ran out of booze,” John jokes with a sarcastic smile, glaring at him. 

“John,” Tom says. One word, conveying so much more. 

“‘lright. I‘v got queschions.”

“Come on in. I'll tell you anything you want to know.” Tom takes a step to the side and gestures inside. 

But John remains standing, glaring at him. He shakes his head. “No. Some queschions can't be ansred with words, Tommy,” he says dryly, like Tom's a moron for asking him to come in to talk. 

Tom stares at him, troubled and confused. 

John almost looks close to angry tears. His eyes widen in a sarcastic eyeroll. He fixates Tom with a dry glare. “Tom. I'm ‘ere. to ‘ave. gay. sex. with you,” he says, pausing several times to put emphasis on what he’s saying. 

“ _What?_ ”

“You ‘eard me,” John challenges, raising his chin defiantly. 

“Have you gone _insane? Why?_ Is this some messed up joke? If not, why the hell would you do that? So you too can go to hell?”

“ _Noo_ body’s goin’ to hell, Tommy. We're auready _there_.” He makes an annoyed gesture, indicating Tom. “The fuck’s the problem? I thought you love me.”

Tom’s heart is racing, gut clenching. He can’t make sense of it. It’s the same as the kiss, only so much worse. 

Cruel. 

John stares at him, swaying where he stands. When Tom doesn’t answer he scowls and turns to walk away. 

Tom reacts before he can think. He hooks his hand inside the back of John’s collar, yanks him inside, spins him around and slams him up against the wall beside the door. He puts his hands on either side of John, preventing escape. Not that John seems to have any escape plans in mind. His drunken mind is still trying to process the sudden change of direction. “The problem, John _is_ that I love you. Amongst other things. The circumstances are all wrong. If this is a joke, it’s crueller than you can even begin to imagine. If not? You’re too drunk. You have no idea what you’re doing. I don’t understand you.”

John’s been staring at Tom from under heavy eyelids, wearing a discontent expression. “Yeah, well. Neither do I. Unnerstan’ me. I’m on it. Gettin’ there.” He reaches out under Tom’s arm, grabs the door, closes it and locks it. “I need to fuck you,” he says, not sounding happy about it. “Don’ worry about me bein’ drunk. ‘M perfecly cabable of doin’ the do.”

Tom’s feeling so many things at once right now, he can’t grasp an emotion and hold on to it for long enough to identify it. “That’s not what I’m talking about. Tomorrow you’ll wake up, regret it, and get into your mind that I forced you, took advant―“

John interrupts him by blowing a raspberry. “Y think this is s’m kind of _impulse_? Forget it. You think I could convince m’self that you, whom I’ve not spoken to for _ages_ , s’m’ow managed to _force_ me to jump onna plane, fly 2000 miles cross country, buy this shit,” he pulls a bottle of lube and a pack of condoms from his pocket, holding it up and rattling it for emphasis, “ ‘ang around a parkin’ lot in freezin’ rain for three hours, gettin’ drunk to work up courage… You think I could some’ow convince m’self you forced me to do all that? No.” He shakes his head. “I need to fuck you, Tommy. I _need_ ‘is queschion anserd.”

Tom’s pulse is racing now. His mind screams ‘No, no, no! Don’t do it!’ at him. His pining heart begs him to give in, to let it happen this once, despite how utterly wrong it is, despite the underlying hostility in John’s approach, despite not being able to figure out _why_ John wants to do this.

John’s fed up with talking, leans in and presses his lips to Tom’s. Tom’s heart skips a beat, his belly swoops. John’s lips are cold, but when he opens them to taste Tom, his tongue is warm and tastes of whiskey. Tom’s arm come around his shoulders on its own behalf before Tom can tear himself away. “John. Stop. You can’t fuck me. I’m a top. That means my dick will be going into you, not the other way around. And I’m big. If you don’t want to do this, you’ll be tense and it’ll hurt like hell. I don’t―“ John’s cold finger pressed to his lips shuts up his panicked babble.

“I don’ give a shit ‘bout how we do this, kay? Ts part of the anser. Y’wanna throw me down an’ dry-fuck me into a bleedin mess in need of stitches, you do that. Y’wanna take your time, preppin me to take a fuckin’ truck wi’out noticin’, you do that. I don’t _care_. Ts ‘appenin’, Tommy. One way or another.” Tom’s pulled back into another kiss. John’s arms circles his waist, hands fanning out on his waist. John’s clothes, hair, and skin are cold and wet from being outside in the icy night drizzle, but Tom feels hot at the touch and taste of him.

He makes one last desperate try to stop it, breaking the kiss and leaning his forehead against John. He closes his eyes. “John. Normally I’d tell my partners they can opt out at any time, to just tell me if they need to stop… I can’t grant you the same respect. My heart can’t take it if you suddenly shove me off and make a run for it. I’m hard pressed to keep my promise to you as it is. It’d hurt me too much. If you go ahead with this folly, you don’t abort mission halfway. I can’t take it. I’d rather not do it at all…”

“Whole nine yards. You got it. ‘Nuff talkin’,” John answers. When he kisses Tom again, Tom gives in, because there’s no denying it―John’s way of kissing, even now, is _perfect_ , and he’s weak. Weak for John.

Maybe he should be happy for this, but something about it makes him want to cry. The number one hint that it’s totally wrong, is that he has to distance himself from any thoughts and feelings and focus on the physical aspects alone. It’s exactly the same thing he’s had to do when he’s gone to the club and let himself be used.

You’ve got to hand it to John though. When he’s decided to do something, he gives it his all. He’s not holding back. He’s giving as good as he get. His mouth is tasting, and hands questing. He pays attention to Tom’s reactions, just as Tom does, figuring out preferences and dislikes. Not many words are said, but those that are said, aren’t veiled in pride or fear of hurting pride. Justin has a problem voicing his likes and dislikes, as is common. You don’t want to embarrass your lover. Tom’s long since learned that telling your lover when something is extra good, hurts, or is uncomfortable, will make for better sex in the long run. It seems like John’s learned the same lessons as him on the other side of the fence. He voices small pointers like ‘Fuck, that’s good,’ or ‘A little gentler… yes, like that.’

Tom’s been with inexperienced partners. He’s been with first timers. He knows to expect hesitation, fumblings, and pauses to process. The whole ‘Holy shit, I’m about to take a dick in my mouth, what do I do?’

There’s none of that.

In fact, John seems so comfortable with what he’s doing, that it gives Tom pause. Tom gives John a BJ, coating his finger with lube to work him open a bit and massage his prostate. There’s no doubt John is enjoying the physical aspects of the treatment. A while later John suddenly flips them over and goes down to deliver a fairly good BJ (especially considering how drunk he is) and copy Tom’s actions. Out of curiosity, Tom lets him lube his finger up and put it inside of Tom, in search for the prostate. John finds it almost immediately.

When he comes up to kiss Tom again Tom _has_ to ask about it. “You ever been with a man before?”

John shakes his head and kisses his throat.

“Are you _sure_?”

John chuckles and supports himself on his elbows to be able to look Tom in the eyes, wearing a lopsided smirk and brown eyes sparkling with amusement. “I think I woulda noticed. Sides, ‘ts just sex, not rocket science. An’ I’ve ‘ad _sex_ before. Fewer boobs, a few more appendages… but same same.”

It’s good. Great even. If this was an ordinary one night stand, or a first time with someone you were about to enter a relationship with, it would have been perfect. Not perfect as in ‘without hiccups’, but perfect as in ‘Holy shit, we’re well matched! And we can perfect this if we keep hooking up.’

But John’s no ordinary one night stand.

There’s a short moment when the wall Tom’s built between his emotions and what they’re doing cracks. John’s on his back on the bed, legs wrapped around Tom’s hips, arms wound around his neck, and Tom’s moving inside of him with slow grinding motions. Suddenly, this hurts. It hurts horribly. The way this came to be is awful and so _wrong_. “Dammit, John. You were supposed to out me,” Tom says, fighting to get his feelings in control. It’s what his ‘script’ said. It said nothing about John showing up in middle of the night, sullen and distraught, demanding sex that will doom him to hell. ‘I want to know what has my best friend so fucked up, destroying what was perfect’ John had said when he demanded the kiss. This folly must be something along those lines too. And Tom’s not dumb enough not to notice that John too, has walled soul and heart away, to be able to go through with this and make it to be ‘just sex’.

As if to prove Tom right, there’s a flash of bitterness on John’s face, gaze boring into Tom’s. “Your words, Tommy. Remember you said that. _You_ said that.” The bitter feelings are quickly hidden again, and John’s lips search out the point below Tom’s Adam’s apple that feels so good to get kissed and licked.

To Tom’s ears, it’s a confession. John’s indeed planning to out him. And absurd as it may seem, it’s a comfort. What John’s waiting for, Tom can’t tell. But it means he won’t have to wait forever. Tom gets his stampeding feelings under control again by focusing on the wonderful things John’s doing with his mouth.

After that there’s no more talk until it’s over. John’s on his back. Tom’s on his side, head rested against his shoulder, he’s stroking Tom’s shoulder with the hand of the arm Tom’s resting on and Tom’s scraping his fingers lightly through the hair on his sweaty chest while they both cool down. Tom closes his eyes. It’s all pretend, and he knows what comes next. He’s prepared for it, like he wouldn’t have been if John had shoved him off in disgust mid-act. John’s told him he usually try to sneak out unnoticed after his hookup has fallen asleep. Not that he’ll be able to fall asleep, but still. For now, Tom just relaxes and lets himself enjoy the tiny moment of closeness….

He’s woken by the sound of John trying to silently get dressed. Or maybe it's the empty spot beside him in bed that woke him. Tom feels his throat constrict. Now’s not the time to cry. There'll be plenty of time later. He opens his eyes to watch John, who’s standing by the door with his back to the bed, fastening his belt.

“Did you get the answer you wanted, John?” Tom asks, hating the forlorn tone of his voice. 

John stops his motion for a beat, turns his head as if he’s about to look at Tom over his shoulder, but doesn’t finish the motion before looking down again. It’s enough for Tom to see his grave looking expression. “No. I got the opposite answer of the one I wanted…” He grabs the door handle, unlocks…

“I love you, John.” It just tumbles out of Tom’s mouth and stops John in his tracks. John’s tense, neck bent. Tom can’t see his face now. It was a mistake. He shouldn’t have said it. In itself it’s a plea, and other pleas are pushing to be released too. ‘please stay’, ‘I miss you’, ‘can we at least be friends again’, ‘I’m no longer whole without you’... all these and more, are on the tip of his tongue. He could pathetically beg. He’s never had a problem forgoing his pride to utter words. He holds back in acceptance that this is his fate. A happy ending was never in his stars. He plasters on a cheeky smile and jokingly adds “No homo though.”

John lets out a startled laughter. He does look over his shoulder now, wearing a sad smile. “Dammit, Tommy,” he says and shakes his head, but his tone and gaze are warm and fond in a way they haven’t been all night. Then he opens the door and disappears into the grey morning light, closing the door after himself.

Tom remains still in bed. One last smile is all it took for those stupid butterflies of false hope to blossom. Knowing the hope is false, hurts so bad. His stupid eyes sting. This time, he doesn’t hold back the tears.

But wonders of all wonders, he manages to fall asleep again, once he’s cried himself dry….

* * *


	32. Noah Matthew Moore Rainsborough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With John, Jessi, and Juss gone (more or less) Noah starts playing a bigger role in the miserable drama that is Tom's life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings for this chapter:**  
>  \- Bible quotes. Heh.

## October - November 2014

John remains a ghost in Tom’s life. Any time Tom sees John, he remembers their night together and cringes inwardly. It makes him feel so small, so gross for giving in. He feels both used and like he’s done something very bad to John. As great as the sex had been, it still fills him with disgust. Deep down, he even feels a bit angry at John for demanding it. 

At other times, when he’s alone in bed, he imagines it happening under other circumstances. Daydreams, where on their ‘date’ at John’s house, they’d ended up kissing, and one thing led to another… With his eyes closed the images became vivid, freed of the ugliness of how it had happened in reality. The memory of how it felt when John’s lips touched his, his hands on Tom’s body, jolts butterflies and longing.

He doesn’t jerk off. He certainly doesn’t jerk off to any memories of John. They only make him sad. He doesn’t have enough spark of living in him to get an erection. Maybe with someone there, but he doesn’t seek out anyone to have sex with.

Mostly, he just misses John. He misses his company. His way of making Tom do stuff. His crappy jokes and penchant for wrestling. His commentary to movies, his ribbing, his… everything.

It’s as bad as his last breakup with Stefan was. The only difference is, back then he’d literally had a team of guys to keep his broken heart afloat. He’d had people around him, and he’d had hockey. The sport had been both a passion and a lifesaver. Any elite athlete would know what he’s talking about. Ordinary know-it-alls would think they know with their ‘Exercise cures depression’ advice, where they seemed to think a brisk walk and eating vegetables was the perfect cure-all. But to people like Tom, their sport was much more than just exercise. First off, when your body broke, you couldn’t exercise on the level your body was used to. A brisk walk to Tom, barely got his body to wake up from slumber, while it’d exhaust an office worker who hadn’t exercised a day in their life. All those good chemicals the body produced when you moved, he’d had daily highs on them, and now he’s left with no way of getting that high again. (As far as he could see in his cloudy mind.) Second of all, a team took care of each other. There were people you liked and befriended, and some you couldn’t stand. But all in all, it was in everyone’s best interest that a team mate was kept afloat through a rough spot. Add to that, the coaches, the team’s medical support, the therapists that were called in if things got too bad. Tom had never talked to a therapist. Maybe he should have, but it too was seen as shameful in these parts, so he’d declined and done his best to ‘smile for the cameras’.

John had caught him and prevented him from free falling.

Now John’s gone.

Tom doesn’t get why the man had prohibited him to commit suicide. He’ll get his punishment once he’s dead anyway, so why must he stick around and suffer? 

Tom is nothing, if not a man of his word. Promises are things to be kept. No matter how badly he wants to break them. Dumb as it is, obeying John is a way to keeping a tiny part of him close. That’s why, when Tom’s leg is bothering him, he dutifully takes his painkillers like John ordered. That’s why he doesn’t shoot himself. Like, whatever ‘contract’ they’d agreed on, if Tom keeps up his end of the deal, John will come back. It’s stupid and unrealistic, but try argue with a broken heart.

The assembly ban is lifted and the hockey season begins, starting with the playoffs. The pain of watching the interviews before the first game is so acute that Tom shuts the TV off and asks Noah not to mention hockey or related news to him. He can’t take it. He can’t take watching two other lost loves (hockey and Sam) from afar, forever out of reach.

John starts showing up at church again, but for one exception, he never speaks directly with Tom. The one time John does speak with him would normally ping on Tom’s radar as odd, but he’s so locked inside his own head that he doesn’t dwell on it. John comes up to him on the parking lot before church, grabs his arm from behind, startling him. When Tom turns around John asks “Are you alright?”, worry in every inch of his posture, jaw clenching and unclenching.

“Yes?”

Somehow, Tom’s confusion is telling John more than Tom ever could imagine. John scrutinizes him, then nods, gives his arm a little squeeze, and walks away. (This whole encounter will not make sense to Tom for many months to come.)

Later he sees Noah in deep, serious conversation with John. It seems like John’s giving his son instructions by how Noah’s nodding repeatedly. It ends with John and Noah giving each other a hug―brief, with back pats, acceptable for men―which makes Tom happy. At least John’s not judging his family for what Tom is. He wonders if Noah and John ever talks outside of church. They did work on the successful food project together before, and Tom hopes they can keep contact even after Tom’s removed from Noah’s life. John’s a good man, and he’d be a good role model to Noah.

“Dad, um… I need money. Can you… can you come get me at the hospital?” Noah says through the phone, voice small, broken. It’s ended with a sniffle.

Tom’s blood runs cold with fear. “Noah, are you alright?! What happened?” He grabs his wallet and car keys, hastens towards the door.

“I’m, I’m fine. Just a couple of scratches. It’s not. It’s not for me. This guy, he’s, he’s… *sniffle*...dad, please just come.”

“I’m on my way. Are you alone there? What happened?”

“I-I got into a fight. Dad, just, just get here. I’m going to be in the chapel, okay?”

“Meet you there, son. Love you.”

“Love you too, dad.”

Tom’s already speeding down the highway when they hang up. A million frightened thoughts buzz in his head. He’s trying to piece together what may have happened with the limited information Noah had given him. He is obviously not fine, or he wouldn’t have been crying. Had someone threatened him unless he gave them money? Did he need bail money for the fight? No. Still at the hospital. Not the police. Noah’s insured. He wouldn’t need the money for the hospital. How badly is he hurt? Just a couple of scratches could mean anything, and the closer Tom gets to the hospital, the worse he thinks it is. 

He parks the car and runs into the hospital, ignoring everyone and everything, heart in his throat, needing to get to his son as fast as he can. He knows the way to the hospital chapel by heart. He’s been there every time he’s visited the hospital for any reason, taking a few minutes to pray for those in need of healing, and lighting a candle. It’s a large room with a stained glass window, a big wooden cross by the altar, and a couple of pews, along with a large candle holder for many small candles. This time only one is burning.

He spots Noah as soon as he enters. He’s on his knees in front of the cross, head bowed and hands clasped together in prayer. “Noah!” Seeing him is a relief. He may not be alright, but he’s _alright_.

Noah turns his head. He’s got cuts on his cheekbone and on the opposite brow, having taken at least two hard punches to the face. His eyes are red and his face blotchy from crying. Tom doesn’t even register how he gets from the door to his son, but no sooner has he spotted him before he's on his knees, hugging Noah, rocking him while Noah cries. He keeps saying “It’s alright. It’s going to be alright,” worrying sick inside. 

When Noah finally has stopped crying Tom asks “What happened, son?”

“I was at the Kmart to buy an ice cream when two guys started harassing this other guy. They said the Croatoan was his fault. Called him a faggot and stuff. He tried ignoring them… I-I should have said something. But I didn't. Dad, I just kept my head down and tried not to get noticed. I'd never seen the guy before, but the two other ones, it's people I know. Adults. I just… I didn't do anything. I figured the guy would leave anyway and that'd be that.”

“They went for you after he left?”

“No! No. They know who I am. They wouldn't. I don’t think. It’s…” He takes a deep breath to steady himself. “They left the store before I did. When I came out… they’d attacked the guy. He was on the ground, barely conscious, and they just… they kept kicking.” Another sniffle escapes Noah before he goes on. “I didn’t even think. Ran up there and grabbed one of them, yelling at them to stop. His friend punched me and we… there was a brief scuffle before they registered who I was and backed off.” He touches his wounded cheekbone lightly. “They didn’t want to fight me. Just the guy. So they took off and I called 911.”

“You said you knew these guys. Who were they?” Tom asks, holding his anger tampered down not to show on his face. He’s heartbroken because his son is heartbroken. But another part of him wants to punish whoever had laid a hand on his son and broke his heart to begin with.

Noah shakes his head as if he’s sensing the violent wishes inside of Tom. He’s right of course. Violence breeds violence. Revenge is not the answer. Tom closes his eyes and sigh. Bends his head for a beat to calm himself. 

“Dad. The guy’s uninsured. He’s in need of surgery and intensive care he can’t afford. He might _die_. Can we cover the costs? I can work it off if you want. Pay you back. Just… please, dad. I feel like I owe it to him since I didn’t speak up and stop it in time.”

Tom looks up to meet his son’s pleading, sorrowful eyes. It makes him sad that his son takes responsibility for a crime he didn’t commit. Very much like he himself would have done. “Of course, son. It’s the Christian thing to do.” It’s not that Tom has any qualms about paying for a stranger―it’s the burden of empathy Noah’s carrying that makes Tom sad. Just like his prayer beads. Not a single one of those beads represents things Noah wants for himself.

“Thanks.” Noah hovers on the brink of tears again, but manages to keep himself under control this time. “I don’t get people, dad. How can they just harm others senselessly?”

He couldn’t explain if he tried. The kind of violence Noah’s got to see first hand now, unprovoked, fuelled only by impersonal hatred… Tom doesn’t understand it either. “It’s what the hate rhetorics does, son. You tell someone something is evil and some people will see that as justification to use violence in the name of God. It’s not the first time it has happened. When I was seventeen we had a middle aged librarian working here. Somebody spotted him in the woods, holding hands with another man. He was attacked and beaten to death. The murder was never properly investigated. The way people talked about his death… it was like they congratulated the murderers for doing God’s work.”

“But the guys on the parking lot, they didn’t know this guy. What if he isn’t gay?”

Tom wishes he didn’t have to have this conversation with his son. “And what if he is?” he asks softly, without putting any bias in his voice or face.

It seems to give Noah pause. “He didn’t _look_ gay.”

“How does a gay man look, Noah?”

Noah looks down at his lap with a troubled expression.

“What if he is gay, Noah? Do you still want us to pay?” Tom repeats when Noah doesn’t answer.

Noah looks up. “Yes. Jesus Christ. I don’t care who he is. It isn’t right! You don’t do that to people. Nobody deserves that. _Nobody_. We’re supposed to help the stray sheep back on the right path, not shoot them for stumbling,” Noah declares with such conviction something inside Tom breaks a little. Tom always identifies with the victims of hate crimes. Mr.Dolan’s murder when Tom was seventeen had affected Tom deeply. Mr.Dolan had been a soft spoken, kind man with a passion for the books he worked with. He went to church and was always willing to help anyone coming to the library. Tom hadn’t had a clue the man was gay before someone had spotted Mr.Dolan holding hands with another man on a hiking trail in the woods. After that, Tom had known what fate awaited him. It’s the death that will be meted out to him when he’s outed. Hearing Noah, who’s been talking harshly about what must be done about the gays, say that they― _he_ ―doesn’t deserve that fate, makes him want to cry tears of gratitude.

* * *

Noah goes every day to visit the victim, waiting by his bedside during visiting hours, praying for him. The man wakes up on the third day. At first, he’s so high on the drugs he’s given, that he doesn’t grasp who Noah is and what he’s doing there. On the fifth day the man, Martin, is clear enough for Noah to hold a conversation with. Noah apologises for not speaking up in the store, for not stopping the crime before it happened. Martin thinks Noah’s mad for feeling guilty. A teenager shouldn’t feel guilty about not stopping two adults from doing a crime he can’t imagine they _will_ commit to begin with. He’s grateful though, that Noah saved his life, and for the medical bills covered. Even more so when he offers to work off the debt and Tom refuses to accept any money from him. It turns out he and his pregnant fiancé Nina have just bought a house in Oklahoma, and are in the middle of a move. Money’s scarce and he’s in between jobs. He’s been hired by a company in Oklahoma, but doesn’t start working until December 1st. He says that people like Noah and Tom restores his faith in mankind. Tom feels like the only thanks he’s earned, is for acting as Noah’s chauffeur to and from the hospital.

After Martin’s released from the hospital, Noah spends most of his free time at home, in his room, brooding. The whole ordeal took him hard. He doesn’t even come along to watch Tom compete. Tom worries for his son.

Some evenings Noah will come down to the den to talk with Tom for a while. He poses questions that Tom wishes he’d ask Grace about instead, but that, in all honesty, Tom’s far more qualified to answer, even if he fears the day his family finds that out.

“Dad…”

“Yes, Champ?” Tom answers, looking up from his game of Candy Crush Saga (which has proved to be an excellent way of spending time without encountering anything triggering) on his phone.

“Justin and Jessi are going to Palm Springs Pride this weekend…” Noah says and sits down in the couch beside him.

“Uh-huh?” Tom answers, apprehensive about where this is going.

“I was wondering… Why do gays do that?”

“Do what exactly?”

“The whole parading naked through the streets, flaunting their sexuality. You see pictures of men, clad in practically nothing, dancing all vulgarly, grinding against each other. It’s offensive. Do they have to shove their sexuality in our faces? You don’t see us having a Straight Pride parade, flaunting hedonistic behaviour.”

“They have good cause for it, son. The pride parades, aren’t solely a festive occasion. It started out as protest marches to gain fundamental human rights. Homosexuals, transgendered people, men who expressed themselves too femininely… they’ve been harassed and persecuted for centuries. It didn’t matter if they kept themselves. The police would search them out and arrest them or humiliate them. People will throw slurs at them or attack them unprovoked. Parents, siblings, friends will turn their backs on them if they’re found out. They may be denied jobs or education, or even to shop in certain stores. They may be prohibited to rent or buy a home. Much like coloured people were, back in the days. It’s better now, but you know it’s still going on. The pride parades play a big part in gay people being treated better today than before. It puts them on the map, makes them visible. We get to see that we’re not just talking about one or two wayward souls. At some of these events millions show up.”

Noah doesn’t question why Tom knows this. He listens with a troubled expression, sadness in his eyes. “But why do they have to make it all about sex?”

Tom draws a deep breath and ponders how to express this. “Well… they don’t. Not really. _We_ do. We’re talking about ordinary people with ordinary dreams. Doctors, construction workers, teachers, office workers, wal-mart cashiers, baristas… you name it. They dream of having nice homes, falling in love and having families, growing old with the person they love…”

_...I will not cry in front of my son… ...I will not cry in front of my son… ...I will not cry in front of my son…_

“...They dream of winning races, writing books, travelling to exotic places, discovering new species, building space ships, or becoming Presidents...”

_...I will not cry in front of my son… ...I will not cry in front of my son… ...I will not cry in front of my son…_

“But for many, many of them, the dream of walking hand in hand with their loved one on the farmers market without fear, is an insurmountable dream. The ones you see dancing on the pride parade are just a small portion of them. Many firmly believe what they feel is abominable, just as we do. They ignore how they feel and marries a woman they’ll never be able to love, get kids, never ever give in to their hearts desire, and do their best.”

Noah’s covered his mouth with his hand and his eyes reflect the pain Tom’s struggling so hard not to show. 

Tom goes on. “The moment a homosexual is outed, society invalidates every aspects of his personality except for his sexuality. He’s scorned, harassed, and discriminated against because of it. We’re the ones who make it about sex. When they try telling us it’s about love, we don’t listen, and if we do, we’re quick to point out that the love they feel is something dirty and wrong. So that’s why a few brave ones rebel. They say ‘You don’t like my sexuality? Well, eff you. This is who I am, and I’m effing proud of it. I refuse to take this lying down.’ And that’s what you see when you see naked men dancing. It’s their rebellion.”

_...I will not cry in front of my son… ...I will not cry in front of my son… ...I will not cry in front of my son…_

“Have you ever met a gay person?” Noah wants to know.

Tom snorts in amusement. He nods with a little smile. “Many times, Noah. Lesbians, gays, bisexuals… I’ve met them all, and they’re just normal people. One thing I know for certain, is that you can’t pray the gay away. They― _nobody_ ―can control who they fall in love with, any more than we can control the weather. Nobody chooses a life filled with fear and discrimination. You ever been in love?”

Noah nods. He puts his feet on the edge of the living room table, looking at them with the constant sad, troubled expression on his face. “Yes.”

“Butterflies in your belly? Sunrays on your skin when they smile at you? Constant longing for any fleeting glimpse of them?”

“Mhm.”

“Imagine if it was David who got you feeling like that.” Noah’s head snaps around and Tom raises his hands to stop any denial. “I’m not accusing you, I’m just asking you to imagine what life would be like if that was the case. To many people, their first crush shows them that God can never love them, and puts a deep foundation of self-loathing, self-hatred, and despair in their hearts. Because you can’t control who you fall in love with.”

Noah looks back at his feet thoughtfully.

“Not everybody are as lucky as you and Jessi either. Because if it were to happen to you…”

_...I will not cry in front of my son… ...I will not cry in front of my son… ...I will not cry in front of my son…_

“...you’d at least be able to rest assured, that you will never lose your parents’ love and support. There are a lot of parents out there that wouldn’t hesitate to throw their child out to fend for themselves.”

“That’s just plain wrong. That’s not how love works,” Noah states decisively.

“You don’t have to tell me, son. I know.”

_...I will not cry in front of my son… ...I will not cry in front of my son… ...I will not cry in front of my son…_

When Noah thanks him and leaves, Tom hits the bottle to drink himself into oblivion.

It’s not the only time Noah comes with him with questions about homosexuality. He ruminates a lot about it, and when he can’t make sense of something he approaches the vast wells of knowledge he considers his parents to be. Tom hears him talk to Grace about it too, but he can’t bear to stop to listen―he fears the answers Grace might be giving.

Every question is painful to answer since he has to explain himself from an outsider’s point of view. He has to scrutinize and drag up every hurtful feeling he’d had to experience due to his sexuality. He ends up drinking almost every night he’s subjected to these questions. Luckily, Noah’s long gone to bed when Tom hits the level of drunk where he couldn’t keep up appearances if he tried.

One question feels good to be allowed to answer though.

He’s doing the laundry, unloading a machine to hang the clothes to dry. Noah comes to join him, picks up the basket and goes to the dryer to load it while Tom loads another machine of dirty laundry.

“Dad…”

Tom has come to dread that thoughtful tone. “Yes, Champ?”

“Homosexuals… You read about all those priests molesting children. Daycare staff, teachers, uncles touching young boys. And then there’s prison...”

It’s not even posed as a question, but Tom has no problem following Noah’s train of thoughts. “Pedophilia and rape has nothing to do with one’s sexual orientation. Little boys and little girls both fall prey to sexual predators of both sexes. It’s a whole other kind of disease. Straight people molest children too. Just because you’re gay doesn’t make you a pedophile. As for prison… we’re talking about men committing horrible crimes without a trace of guilt for it. They’re isolated from females, sometimes for life, in a dog eat dog world. It doesn’t stop them from getting horny. Many of them, I’m sure, wouldn’t look at another man with anything but disgust in the free world. But necessity knows no law. A hole’s a hole and a mouth’s a mouth.”

“Jesus, dad. No need to be graphical about it,” Noah mutters, cheeks colouring slightly.

Tom chuckles and starts the washing machine. “If you don’t want answers, don’t ask the question, son. And don’t forget that rape has a lot to do with power and less to do with getting off. It has to do with humiliating and frightening the victim.”

“Yeah, alright. Thanks, dad.” And then he’s off again, isolating himself in his room to dwell on things.

It feels good to get to say that homosexual doesn’t equal rapist or pedophile. At least _that’s_ one thing he feels he can say with his pride intact. That male Abercrombie models nearly as young as Noah, gets him hot and bothered, is another matter. And to be fair, to get turned on by a cocky, fit 19 year old, isn’t even in the near vicinity of pedophilia, even if 16 year old is pushing the limits, whether they look older or not. But even then, a true pedophile will happily go for preschoolers. And Tom’s own sin pales in comparison to that.

* * *

Noah’s stoic in church the next week. He looks grim, and several times during the sermon he shakes his head as if denying the words. They both go and quietly wait in the car afterwards, while Grace mingles. “You okay, Champ?” Tom asks. 

“I'm fine,” Noah answers in a tone that makes it clear that he doesn’t want to talk about it. 

Noah isolates himself even further. He doesn’t ask questions anymore, but sometimes he comes out of his room to join Tom on the couch in the den to watch a movie. He'll lean against Tom's side like when he was little. He'll barely speak, and finger his prayer beads one at a time. Any questions or offerings to talk about it, whatever ‘it’ may be, is met with answers like “Dad. Just leave it.”

Tom worries for him.

Tom’s days are bleak. Each minute drags by. Grace and him are back to barely acknowledging each other’s existence. It’s his faults of course. Any friendly overtures from Grace’s side are shut down in the same way as Noah shuts down their tries to talk to him about what’s bothering him. Grace and Tom still talk and smile at each other during dinner, but that’s all for Noah’s benefit. Their home is a lair for three wounded animals each licking their wounds in separate rooms.

It’s a wonder that Tom manages to keep up with his duties, yet somehow, he does. Vacuuming, cleaning, washing, cooking, shopping. All these tasks seem insurmountable, but he does them. They take five times longer than they should, and he frequently gets stuck mid action, holding the vacuum cleaner unmoving in his hand while he stares at nothing. Maybe it's a good thing Grace had stopped him from getting a job, because he doubts he'd be able to perform one as things stand. 

Noah is neither blind nor stupid. Despite smiling masks he notice his parents depression and starts compensating. More and more, Tom finds Noah doing their chores. The guilt of that is horrendous. When Tom tells him he doesn’t have to do that, he answers “It’s okay. I wanted to.”

It’s utter bullshit. 

What soon eighteen year old wants to come home to vacuum the house, fold laundry, clean toilets and do tasks like it?

Tom can’t bear the shame. He tries to make sure there's no slack for Noah to pick up when he comes home. He _tries_. But trying to do everything every day proves too much. He needs his time at the shooting range. _Needs_ it. Not like ‘Oh, I need to skip down to the range and practice my hobby for a bit. Cheerio!’ But like ‘If I don’t go down there to empty my head I'm going to point my gun _at_ my head and pull the trigger.’

He's both grateful for Noah’s actions, and deeply ashamed about the need for them. It’s no question about who's currently the Man in the house, and it sure as Hell isn’t Tom.

It’s not like the family doesn’t talk or joke, it’s just that words doesn’t stick to Tom. Everything is either the end of the world or totally meaningless. Like when he drops the salt dispenser and the lid flies off, spilling salt all over the kitchen floor, and he cries about it for ten minutes. That may have been a low point even for him. Luckily no one was at home to see it.

He lives for the brief glimpses he gets of John. John’s back to frequenting the range. He doesn’t say hello, unless a third party makes it necessary, and he never chooses a lane too close to Tom’s (nor one too far away). But it's insane how often their visits collide. Tom catches him looking often as not, even if John averts his gaze anytime he’s caught. 

Tom’s not ashamed to admit that down on the range, he’s the show off of the century when John’s about. If he'd been a peacock he'd be all plumage and showy dancing. He shoots at his best, walks with a swagger, smirks and throws John sassy winks. He learns to do stupid tricks with his (empty - safety comes first) gun, spinning it around his finger, throwing it up in the air and catching it behind his back. He makes jokes and smart ass comments when John’s within hearing range. It’s stupid. It’s silly. It’s ridiculous. 

But… sometimes it works. 

Sometimes when he’s joking with someone else―being all cocky and suave―close enough for John to see and hear (otherwise, what’s the point?), he’ll see John’s mouth twitch into a smile, his shoulders shake in held back laugh, or other signs that he’s not putting up his show for empty halls.

The day when John actually breaks down laughing, and has to put down his gun, feels like the best day ever. John packs down his gun and leaves, still chortling, muttering “ _Dammit, Tommy,_ ” as he passes by, cheeks all rosy and gorgeous, eyes meeting Tom’s full of fond mirth… He walks out of there, yet the stupid grin won’t leave Tom’s face for hours. A smile it all it takes for Tom’s stomach to swoop like he’s riding a rollercoaster. One smile, and he’s taking small dancing steps when he moves to and fro his car. One smile, and the night in Louisiana is forgiven. 

It doesn’t last, but in Tom’s state of depression an hour or five of happiness is worth so much more.

Apart from John-moments, the few good moments he has are centered around his gun. It’s Noah’s pride when he wins a competition too. A moment when he gets to feel like he’s worth something. It’s bonding moments when Noah starts coming out of his isolation and finally talks Tom into letting him try shooting. Noah’s never cared all that much for hockey, but he adopts this interest, and Tom thoroughly enjoys the moments teaching his son to shoot at the range. Afterwards they’ll have a snack together at the common room and talk about nothings. It’s nice.

Of course, since John shows up at such odd hours nowadays, he comes along when Tom and Noah’s there together too. Noah spots him. “Dad, is it okay if I go talk to him? Since I don’t know what you’re fighting ab―“

Tom grins. “Please do. John’s a great man, that you’d do well to nurture a friendship with. Just because I fucked up, doesn’t mean you can’t talk to him, Champ.”

“What did you do?” Noah asks curiously. Tom, for obvious reasons, hasn’t been forthcoming about why they’re no longer talking.

“Between him and me, son. Between him and me.”

Noah nods his acceptance and goes down to talk to John.

The instances when they’re there all three of them are… odd. It’s like a fun house version of the ‘Tell your daddy that…’ Grace and he had going for a while. Noah flits between the two of them, talking, laughing, getting shooting lessons from the both of them. And it’s like it’s okay to look at each other as long as Noah’s close by. John turns into as much of a show off as Tom. Telling Noah stories that cracks him up, that he returns to retell. And when it makes Tom laugh John looks ridiculously pleased. And one time when John’s instructing Noah, and Noah hits the bull's eye, their eyes meet and John―the cheeky shit―winks at him.

“It’s funny,” Noah says in the car home. “You keep a two lane buffer zone, and don’t talk to each other directly, but it still _feels_ like when you were hanging out and goofing off.” Then he takes a bite out of his apple, turns up the sounds that goes for music in his world and leaves the subject.

When Noah’s not there they’re back to stealing hidden looks at each other.

Tom doesn’t get it. All he knows is that he’s wasting away and John doesn’t want him in his life anymore. Pining for someone unattainable sucks.

Due to the drought, nature skipped over autumn completely. Everything was already bleak and dead. October and November rushes by without any rain or snow in sight. It just got darker and colder. There were no abundance of leaves to shift colour and drop in big yellow piles to pulse through. No fruits to harvest. Severe pumpkin shortage. Halloween had passed by without registering on Tom’s radar, there’d been no fruit pie competition at church, none of the annual festivities that normally came and went. The Croatoan had seen to that. On that front though, things were looking up. The lower class citizens were getting better nutrition again with the food deliveries, and one of Tom’s richest neighbours had picked up the bill to make sure everyone in town got the vaccine, without so much as a blink of an eye. Much could be said about the congregation, but they weren’t all about judgement. There were still people sick, and people suffering the aftermath of the Croatoan, but there’d been no new cases here in November. 

That didn’t stop hellfire and brimstone sermons from happening in church on Sundays.

One would think that hearing about how everything was the fault of those abominable, depraved sodomites, would be something you get used to, right? But no. It still hurt. It still made Tom mentally flatten his ears and tuck tail between his legs in shame. He tried his best to let the words flow over his head and instead turned his neck so that he could watch John on the other side of the mid-aisle. He’s so handsome. As usual at church, he’s impeccably dressed, shaved, and has his curly hair combed into submission. Throw a pair of glasses on him and he’d be Clark Kent. He’s wearing a stoic expression, staring at the priest. He knows this sermon is about Tom, even if no one else in here knows it. As if John can feel Tom’s gaze, he turns his head to throw a look his way. His head snap back as soon as he discovers that Tom’s already looking.

The level of Tom’s pining and heartbreak, makes him think that John might actually be added to his list of Big Loves, along with Stefan and Sam. It hadn’t been the instant attraction as with them, true. He hadn’t plummeted into love with John within the first hours of meeting him, as he had with Stefan and Sam. He’d slowly, step by step, walked into love with John. Unlike meeting Sam had made him finally let go of Stefan, the longing for Sam was still there, despite John. But somehow, it felt like John had managed to carve a piece of Tom’s heart, that rivalled Sam and Stefan’s in size. Maybe it was just the general depression talking, and maybe it's too soon to tell. It’s only been twelve weeks since their ‘breakup’, when John saw him with Cal. 

On second though, there's no ‘only’ about it. Usually, it took two to four weeks until acute sorrow faded into sad acceptance. Especially if the man didn't want him back. But now, that acceptance just wouldn’t settle. He doesn’t search John out, doesn’t speak to him lest spoken to, doesn’t beg him to see beyond what Tom is so they can be friends again. He simply isn't the type to force an unwanted relationship of any kind. This ought to be enough to kill the flame, but it isn't. Daydreams of not only being friends again, but becoming lovers, haunts him.

As catastrophic as their night together was, it still means he can imagine what it would be like. He can’t pretend to himself it would be bad now that he _knows_ it wouldn't. 

It’s useless. When John has made a decision, he sticks to it unless new information surfaces. There’s no new information to be had. Tom’s gay, and that’s that.

Reverend Bonahue’s words floats past like corrosive poison while something jolts inside of Tom every time John turns his head to sneak a glance at him. It’s what his Sundays are like these days. Nothing changes and nothing ever will change. 

“...brothers and sisters. We’re all being punished for the vile acts of the despicable, depraved, sodom―“

“ **ENOUGH!** ”

Noah’s call startles each and every one of them, silencing their priest as well. Noah rises to his feet, straight backed and determined, ignoring the whispers that start up.

“Sit down, young man―“ a woman in front pews says irritatedly.

“SILENCE, WOMAN,” Noah interrupts her forcefully, slicing the air, crossing his hands and moving them outward in a cut-it-out gesture. His voice and demeanor carries so much authority it not only shuts her up, but makes a stunned silence settle over the whole room. Every single gaze is locked on Noah now, yet he doesn’t waver under its weight. Tom’s pulse is racing. He’s as shocked by this as the rest of them. His paternal instinct has him wanting to take Noah and whisk him away to safety. 

“I need to speak. In front of God and the congregation, because this can’t go on any longer,” Noah says, voice clear, calm, and expression serious. “A few weeks ago I bore witness to a despicable deed. An innocent man was attacked and nearly killed in broad daylight. The case was dropped by the police almost as soon as it was reported. An unborn child nearly lost its father. It’s a tragedy of great proportions, and it’s our fault.” Noah pauses looking grim and determined. 

People are listening attentively, if nothing else, because of the outrage of someone demanding to interrupt the sermon. 

“The man in question was a stranger in these parts, unknown to us. The perpetrators were two adult men, whom I will not name, that I've always respected and held in high esteem. They committed this heinous crime unprovoked, and they did it in the name of God, thinking themselves justified. And it’s _our fault_.”

Noah makes another pause for emphasis.

A heavy feeling has settled over the room. Noah’s seriousness has grabbed them, and have them waiting for an explanation. 

“The man was attacked because they thought, wrongly, that he was homosexual. The case was dropped almost immediately, wrongly, because the police shared the perpetrators’ belief. The whole incident should never have been allowed to happen. Even _if_ the man was homosexual.”

“Homosexuality is a disease!” somebody in the back protests. 

“So is cancer, yet I haven't seen Mr.Bellamy beaten to a pulp for it,” Noah retorts, annoyance creeping into his voice. 

Reverend Bonahue holds up his hands. “People, please. Let young Mr.Rainsborough speak.”

It surprises Tom, but maybe it shouldn't. After all, Noah has spent a considerable amount of time with Bonahue, and has expressed an interest in maybe becoming a priest. 

“Thank you, Reverend,” Noah says. He takes a deep breath and goes on. “I've spent many nights praying these last couple of months, trying to figure out what God's trying to tell us. He’s sent us the drought and the Croatoan. I believe it means something. But to me, it feels like, our house is on fire, there are fire extinguishers on every wall, yet nobody is putting out the fire because we're busy arguing who left the stove on.”

He's directing himself to all of them, turning around, looking people in the eye. “We are told these plagues are visited upon us, because of the sins committed by the depraved and their ilk.” Another short pause. “We are told that homosexuals are horrendous people, the root of much of the evil in this world. And we believe it. Yet how many of us have even _met_ a homosexual?” He pauses again. Some people shift and whisper, but most keep quiet. 

“The sodomite has become a boogie man to us. A demon representing all the sins and viles in this world, and by unloading every sin on his shoulders, we can call ourselves righteous.”

Noah falls silent, lets his words sink in. 

“During my sleepless nights of prayer and contemplation, I've concluded that this is why God is punishing us. He’s not targeting the sinners, he's targeting _us_ , who claim to walk in his light, yet we condone of, and carry out crimes against other human beings. Two respectable godly men almost broke one of the ten commandments and we urged them on and applauded them! All because we thought the victim was a homophile.”

There are murmurs in the back, but Noah’s not stopping. Tom’s in awe of him. Apprehensive about what this will lead to too, certainly. But he had no idea Noah is such fearless, adept public speaker. He’s smart to say ‘we’ too, even if it’s a lie that he himself had applauded the act. By including himself as a guilty party, he stops people from getting defensive straight away.

“How far from God's path have we not strayed, when ‘Thou shalt not kill’ can so easily brushed aside? When our persecution of our boogie man, leads us to disregard the very reason why the Lord sent his son, Christ, to suffer for us?... Let me quote Matthew 9:11-13 to point to the very thing I’m talking about.” Noah clears his throat and recites with a clear, carrying voice, “ _And when the Pharisees saw this, they said to his disciples, ‘Why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?’ But when he heard it, he said, ‘Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. Go and learn what this means, ‘I desire mercy, and not sacrifice.’ For I came not to call the righteous, but sinners.’_ ”

There are more murmurs in the pause Noah leaves, but others are hushing those who speak.

“What that means,” Noah continues, “is that God and Jesus wants us to save lost souls, not help them get to Hell sooner.” A pause. “I’m not free from guilt. I’m as big part of the problem as the rest of us. The road to Hell is paved by good intentions, and I’ve been walking down it, none the wiser. We’ve strayed. And I’m not saying this make us bad people. We, this congregation, are capable of great, wonderful things! This year of strife has proved it. We’ve come together to make sure those with lesser means didn’t lose their access to water. We’ve supported each other when the Croatoan bit us. Mom, along with some of the others here, has spent almost every day for months, down in the poorer neighbourhoods, nursing sick people back to health, helping those who have suffered from the consequences of the Croatoan and the drought, asking for nothing in return. We have launched a big project to make sure no one in town will starve, all of us contributing one way or another―“

“I supplied the trucks!” Paul calls out, interrupting Noah. Paul’s very conscious about people knowing of his good deeds.

Noah smiles and nods his way. “You did. And as I was saying, this whole ordeal has highlighted the miracles we are capable of, our unselfish sides and our generosity. We are good people. I’m not pointing a finger and placing blame. Being human, is being fallible.”

Noah pauses and looks around again. The mood has shifted somewhat. The discontent, defensive murmurs have stopped. Tom’s a bit rattled. All these months and he hadn’t had a clue where Grace was all day. He hadn’t had the energy to ask. No wonder she was tired all the time, toiling in other people’s misery.

“I come to church to find hope and comfort. I come to be close to the God I love. I’ve needed a lot of comfort this year. I’ve felt powerless and afraid, as I know many of us have. Yet, too much of the talk here is about judgement. It’s not comforting at all. It does nothing to lay my fears to rest, or urge me to hold onto hope. On the contrary, at times it has gotten me wondering if God is evil. He is not. I know this in my heart to be true.” Another pause. “Matthew 7:1-5, ‘ _Judge not, that you be not judged. For with the judgment you pronounce you will be judged, and with the measure you use it will be measured to you. Why do you see the speck that is in your brother's eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye? Or how can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when there is the log in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck out of your brother's eye.’_ ”

Noah is one month away from turning eighteen. Where he got the charisma and talent to get a church full of conservative people to stop and listen, Tom couldn’t say. But here he is, more or less giving his own sermon, holding everyone’s attention. (Maybe not everyone. The youngest children pays as much attention as they usually do, which is to say, very little.)

“God wants us to save lost souls. The only road to salvation is through Christ. We know this. But how can we expect gays and other sinners to find their way into God’s light, if we bar their way and force them to live in fear?” Noah shakes his head. “We can’t. That’s how. During my prayers, this is the answer that was revealed to me. This is why God is punishing us. We need to re-learn how to love the sinner, not the sin. We need to focus on how to fix the problems, not on placing blame. We need to make church a place of hope and comfort for _everyone_ , not only the righteous. If we don’t do this, it’s my firm belief that none of us will reach Heaven on our day of reckoning.”

Noah’s silent for a long time this time. His demeanor changes, turns grave. “This is what I needed to say today. I hope you can all find it in your hearts to embrace a change of direction. If not…” Noah lowers his gaze for the first time, looking sorrowful but accepting of a grim fate. “If not, I will have to leave this congregation to find a church that does.”

There’s a few shocked gasps, one of which came unbidden from Tom’s own mouth. Tom looks around. Grace is covering her mouth with a hand, eyes wide, John’s staring at Noah with his mouth slightly open and eyebrows raised in surprise, Reverend Bonahue looks as startled as the rest of them. You don’t _leave_ the congregation. You just don’t. Not unless you move away for other reasons, or you’re ostracized for something. You get bullied out of the congregation for falling out of favour with it. You. Don’t. Leave. It scares Tom, because saying it may be just one of those things that may push Noah (and the rest of the family for that matter, but Tom couldn’t care less about that right now) out of favour.

There’s a smattering sound coming from somewhere, echoing in the shocked silence of the church. 

It’s growing louder, more insistent. People are starting to notice, looking around. It’s a sound they’ve heard many times before, but it’s been so long now, that in the stunned atmosphere after Noah’s admission, it takes a while for them to properly grasp what they’re hearing.

Luckily, children are blissfully unaffected by the politics of adults, and as such they are not blinded by them. “ _Daddy! Is rainin’!_ ” a little girl calls out and claps her hands in delight.

Everyone shifts, looking towards the stained glass windows, some getting to their feet, moving.

“Brothers and sisters!” Reverend Bonahue calls out, holding up his hands to get their attention. “It seems God has chosen to add his voice to the plea of young Mr.Rainsborough. I think we all need to do some heavy soul searching, and carefully consider the speech given by Noah today. So I hereby conclude today’s sermon so we can go out and enjoy the blessed, long awaited rain.”

He’s barely finished the sentence before people are getting up and rushing towards the doors.

Rain or not, Tom’s by Noah’s side, pulling him into a hug. Grace had been closer and is swept into the hug too. “My brave boy. My brave, _brave_ boy,” Tom mutters into his hair, Grace murmuring something he can’t hear, but undoubtedly along the same lines.

“I’m sorry. Maybe I should have warned you. I know this affects you too, and it was selfi―“ Noah begins, but Grace stops him and cups his cheeks.

“No, baby, no. Don’t worry about that. You know we’re behind you whatev―“

“ _Yo_ , Noah! My man!” one of Noah’s friends calls out, making his way down the pews with several other youths in tow. They’re wet, having gone out into the rain, and turned around to get Noah. Noah’s swept up by them, dragged away from his parents, getting slaps in the back, cheers, questions. Grace and Tom will have to wait to talk to him.

Instead they follow the rest of the crowd out, holding hands.

The rain is torrential and ice cold, and nobody cares. People are standing with their heads turned up, getting drenched. They’re laughing and talking, having to shout, or lean in close, to be heard over the smattering on the ground, cars, roofs. And everybody seems to want to say something to Noah.

His son’s gamble appears to be a winning one.

* * *

In the car on the way home chattering teeth puts a stop to most conversations. At home they get changed into dry clothes, light a fire in the fireplace, boil some hot cocoa and curl up in the living room with blankets. “Why did you have to do it, Noah?” Tom says sternly.

Noah looks surprised, then shamefaced. “Sorry, dad. I―“

“Now we have to put up with forty days of this crap,” Tom adds and gestures annoyedly at the window.

Noah’s face is a funny thing to watch when it goes from shamefaced, to ‘what?’, to ‘ _Ooh_ , when it dawns on him that Tom’s making a joke. “Ha, ha, dad. Real funny,” he says dryly. Grace giggles and Tom grins. “‘S weird that only you and John have made Noah-jokes this far,” Noah remarks bemusedly.

“What did he say?”

“He stuck a fiver in my hand and said,” Noah raises his hand to pat the side of his nose with a finger and over-conspicuously look from side to side out of the corner of his eyes, mimicking John’s body language. “‘Here. Save me a seat on the boat. And swat those two mosquitoes, would you?”

Tom laughs and Grace giggles. John’s humour was in line with theirs, no matter how crappy the jokes were.

“He’d written on the fiver too, so it wasn’t just a dad-joke,” Noah goes on. “It said ‘That took some big balls! Admirable and thought worthy. Good luck.’”

“It sure as hell did, Champ.”

“I guess your prayers for water must have reached the man upstairs en masse, huh?” Grace says. The rain is pouring as hard as when it started. You can barely see out of the windows.

“Yeah this is freaky. I can’t believe my luck. I think people would have been far less inclined to be open to what I said, had it not started. Can you believe some even came up to me and thanked me for making it rain? It’s _absurd._ ” Noah shakes his head and takes a sip of his cocoa.

“Sweetheart, you can hardly blame people for being superstitious when you just told them the drought is their fault and that we need to change, then suddenly the rain comes. It does make it seem like you’re on good terms with God,” Grace says with a warm smile and reaches out to pat Noah’s knee sticking out from under the blanket wrapped around him. They’re all three sitting on the couch, Grace snuggled up against Tom, and Noah beside Grace.

“I know. Still…” Noah shakes his head bemusedly. 

“I can’t believe you could make a speech like that from the top of your head,” Tom says, sipping his hot cocoa, savouring the sweetness and how it warms the body from within.

“Um… I didn’t. I wrote it two weeks ago. Must have re-written it, like, five times. And I forgot more than half of it. But I figured that if I pulled up notes the effect would be lost and my chances of getting people to listen would lessen. Was supposed to do this last Sunday, but for once the sermon wasn’t as hateful as it usually is. You both said what happened to Martin was because of the hate rhetorics. I needed some drama to make it work, I think.”

Grace puts a hand over her mouth, eyes sparkling with delight. Tom too is amazed. “You _planned_ it?”

“Yeah… I mean, come on…” Noah murmurs into his cocoa.

“You never thought to warn us?” Grace asks with a little smile. 

“I did. But I was afraid you'd try to talk me out of it. I mean, I get that this may mean bad things for all of us as long as we live here. And that it was selfish to risk your positions. But it had to be done for the greater good. I can’t be part of something so toxic it may lead to people dying, or makes them live in constant fear.”

“We're not mad at you, sweetheart,” Grace assures him. “Did Bonahue know?”

Noah sniggers. “Yeah, _that's_ likely,” he says sarcastically. “No. And I bet he wouldn’t have let me interrupt him so readily if he knew I was going to criticise him. But I know he's eager to keep the younger generations interested in God, so I took advantage. We’re going to talk about it tomorrow. He _seemed_ positive, but I don’t know.” Noah pauses to sip his cocoa. “My friends acted like I'm the coolest thing since pizza. But not everyone was as enthusiastic. Nana said ‘You don’t really expect me to share pews with a sodomite, do you?’” Noah impersonates with a sneer. “I think it was a good thing I forgot half of the speech. In hindsight, I think I'd have zero chance of convincing the older generations of a reform if I'd said everything I'd planned.” He bites a fingernail, talking around it like Tom often does. 

“Noah, you know you can't pray the gay away, right? Even if you get gay people to come to church,” Tom says. 

“You don’t know that,” Grace says. 

“It doesn’t matter. Maybe you can and maybe you can’t. The point isn't to reform sinners. The point is that they're human too, and nobody should have to live in that kind of fear. I don’t want to be part of something that leads to a person getting beat up just for going to the store, minding their own business. Violence and hate is not the will of God. I can’t believe that. Not my God anyway. If it is, God is evil and doesn't deserve our worship.”

“Do you still have the written speech?” Grace asks. Noah nods. “Can I read it?”

Noah rummages in his pocket under the blanket and hands over several folded pages. Grace reads it through. “You’re right. If you'd said all this, some people would have seen you burn along with the gays you’re defending,” she says when she's finished. 

“Can I read too?” Tom asks. 

“Yeah, sure.”

Tom starts reading, tuning out Grace and Noah’s further discussion. Noah hadn’t kept to the word. The language in the written speech is a little more archaic in places, to appeal to the older generations. There’s a joke in there about Tom’s favourite movie, along with a quote ‘When I'm wrong, I say I'm wrong.’ It makes Tom chuckle. There's a whole section about the family motto, ‘It’s the Christian thing to do’, with examples of how Noah’s seen him and Grace do countless of unselfish, generous, and forgiving things, and that’s what made him love God in the first place. How compassion is, and should always be the core of what it means to be a Christian. 

It’s not until further down, when Noah talks about the sodomites, that Tom understands what Grace was talking about. 

“. _..It’s true, that the bible clearly states that mankind shall not lie with mankind as with womankind. (Pause) We here have painted it as the worst crime you can commit. But think! It's not even amongst the ten commandments! (Pause) According to the commandments, art is forbidden. We have long since decided to disregard this and we are certain God loves us anyway. Stealing is forbidden. I know of at least two people in here that have been to jail for thefts committed in their youth. We have chosen to forgive them, and fully expect God to do so as well. (Pause) Granted, they may not be our first choice to house sit, but you know. (Pause for laughter (hopefully) I'm sure Joe will think it's funny)_

Joe is one of the persons mentioned, who had been in jail for car theft. He's very good natured about it and would definitely think it’s funny. 

“ _...Cheating. It’s not allowed. We choose to look between our fingers and pretend it's not going on, as long as it's handled discreetly. We believe God will forgive cheaters. We believe God will forgive envy and forgive if we disrespect our parents, and forgive if we lie. These are all part of the basic rules God gave us and we expect God to love us even when we fail to uphold them. (Pause) The bible says to obey the laws of man. Yet how many of us have never gotten a speeding ticket? Tell me why then, we find it so impossible and unforgivable, for a man to love another man?..._ ”

Tom reads on with a lump in his throat, until he finds another section Noah left out. It’s extremely controversial. At least in this congregation. Tom doesn’t know how to feel about it, except for repeat the mantra ‘I will not cry in front of my son’ in his head. 

“ _...We have long equalled homosexual and sodomite. No wonder perhaps. This is said in Genesis 19:4-11, when the two angels in man’s guise visited Lot:_  
‘But before they lay down, the men of the city, the men of Sodom, both young and old, all the people to the last man, surrounded the house. And they called to Lot, “Where are the men who came to you tonight? Bring them out to us, that we may know them.” Lot went out to the men at the entrance, shut the door after him, and said, “I beg you, my brothers, do not act so wickedly. Behold, I have two daughters who have not known any man. Let me bring them out to you, and do to them as you please. Only do nothing to these men, for they have come under the shelter of my roof.”  
_(Pause) The angels bore the guise of men, and every man in Sodom had come to molest them sexually. But the Sodomites were men who were married to women, who had children. Lot had lived there for years already. If these men were homosexuals, he would have known offering his daughters would be pointless, wouldn’t he? (Pause) I say we are doing wrong by equalling homosexual with Sodomite. The crime the men of Sodom committed, was not homosexuality, but gang rape, brutality, and depravity in general. Sodomite equals rape, brutality and selfishness. It equals hatred, violence, and lack of compassion. (Pause) I’m not saying we should condone homosexuality all the sudden. I’m saying that the expression has a wider range than we use it for. And we have committed the sins of Sodom ourselves, in our strife to fight the sin we’ve chosen as our boogie man. This is why we’re being punished_ …”

Tom has to pause his reading. “Our congregation isn’t ready for this,” he mutters, wide eyed. 

Noah chuckles. “Yeah. I got that. Like I said, I think it’s a good thing I forgot most of it. I just want change to happen _now_. I’m tired of just standing by and watch people suffer. But I guess some changes take time, huh?”

Tom nods and go back to reading.

“ _...I no longer believe that a man loving another man, truly is an unforgivable crime against God. I believe all our deeds will be counted by God when he judges us. If a homosexual man upholds every other virtue, is generous and kind, shows respect, love, and care for those around him, God will judge any crime against him, just as harshly as he’ll judge crimes against a straight man. And he will be shown the same mercy as any of us, on his day of reckoning. (Note: Maybe say this? Maybe not. Depends on the reactions this far. If argument: - 1 Corinthians 13)_ ”

Keeping from crying in front of Noah have never been this hard. “Noah… do you really mean this last part?”

Noah nods, looking determined. “Yes. If God can forgive all our other sins, then yes. You remember when you asked me about falling in love? What I would do if the person I fell in love with was a guy? If I could control it? And you’re right. You can’t control it. Like, why the fuck would God judge us for things we can’t control?”

“ _Language_ ,” both Tom and Grace chastise at the same time.

“Sorry. But, just… I don’t know if it’s right or not. But after our talks I spent some time reading LGBT sites online, and like you said, the majority of these people are just ordinary people. But the suffering they have to go through because of people like us, dad, you can’t imagine,” Noah says, shaking his head and looking pleadingly at Tom, begging Tom to understand.

Tom gives him a tight lipped smile. “It’s alright. What you did today is a good thing. Can I hold on to this?” he asks and holds up the speech.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Thank you. Now if you excuse me, I need to go to the toilet…” Tom feels the tears pressing on and he is not ready to explain to his wife and son, why these papers in his hands has him in a state where he just want to crawl into a corner and bawl like a child.

It’s not like he hasn’t heard pro-gay Christians talk before, or Christian gays for that matter. But somehow, it’s so ingrained in him that God can’t love someone like him. Maybe because he knows his family can’t, wouldn’t. Grace is a tolerant woman, but there’s a vast difference between tolerating and loving. And Jessi… Jessi isn’t very religious, if he’s honest to himself. He’s certain she believes in God, but to her the bible is just a dusty old tome that holds the same value as any other book, or maybe less, because she finds it boring. She can’t be expected to understand a deep relationship with God, like Tom’s always had. Like his parents, Grace, and Noah has. But Noah… Noah might be the most religious out of all of them. He knows the bible by heart, he’s extremely involved in the church (and not like Grace, whose involvement is centered mostly around the church’s charity), he might even have the calling… If he can reach the conclusion that God can forgive a homosexual for whom they love… 

It’s a hard subject to Tom. He’s biased. He wants it to be true too much, so he doesn’t trust his own judgement. Not only that, he yearns so badly for the acceptance from the people he loves, that the tiny shred of hope that he can one day maybe tell Noah the truth, and be forgiven… He wants it so bad it makes it hard to breathe, now that there’s the tiniest sliver of hope.

It scares him to death.

If he ever worked up the courage to tell Noah ‘I’m gay,’ while feeling a tendril of hope of anything but rejection, being rejected would destroy him, like it wouldn’t if he didn’t have hope.

That night Tom lies awake, reading Noah’s speech over and over. Turning the words every possible angle in his mind. He’s studying the speech as if it was gospel from the bible itself. “... _During my prayers, this is the answer that was revealed to me._...” A bold, bold statement from someone so young. Had Noah gotten his prayers answered? _How_ was it revealed? Was he sure? Was he absolutely certain? What if this was all wrong? What if it _wasn’t?_

Tom does something he hasn’t done in a long while. He gets his bible, and thumbs it through, reading a passage here and there. He tries to read it with the speech as a guidance for how to do it, rather than reading it the way he was taught by his parents. He ends up crying, so sue him. When he finally feels himself starting to doze off, he carefully folds the speech and uses it as a bookmark at 1 Corinthians 13.

* * *

What the consequences of Noah’s action will be, will not be clear for days, maybe weeks. But he’s had a major impact on a few individuals without even knowing it. Tom is not the only one in their congregation who battles with demons and struggles with the toxic environment they live in. Sometimes, it doesn’t take much to light a candle in the dark...

* * *

### 1 Corinthians 13

**The Way of Love**  
(Tom’s bookmark)

`If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give away all I have, and if I deliver up my body to be burned, but have not love, I gain nothing. `

`Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. `

`Love never ends. As for prophecies, they will pass away; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when the perfect comes, the partial will pass away. When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish ways. For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known. So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.`

* * *


	33. Talk, Listen, and Believe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noah's speech preluded something bigger than Tom had anticipated.

## December 1 st 2014

**Genesis 6:11-13** _Now the earth was corrupt in God’s sight and was full of violence. God saw how corrupt the earth had become, for all the people on earth had corrupted their ways. So God said to Noah, “I am going to put an end to all people, for the earth is filled with violence because of them. I am surely going to destroy both them and the earth”_.

* * *

Noah’s gambling wasn’t received well by everyone. Reverend Bonahue however, had high hopes for Noah. They had a long talk on Monday, where Noah explained himself. He told Tom afterwards that he didn’t push the acceptance of gay people, but rather a more general forgiving agenda, since he wanted Bonahue on board. He’d argued for sermons that would inspire and bring hope, in the wake of this year’s horrors. He’d argued the point of how, if you frightened people too much, and stood in their way of finding solace and purity in Christ, you were in fact doing the Devil’s work for him. If God’s people do not welcome a sinner who wishes to repent, then no matter how pure and willing the soul is, it had no choice but to turn towards Satan. “Seriously, dad. I don’t think I’ve bullshitted this much in my whole life. It felt like I was on trial,” Noah say in the car, when Tom comes to pick him up afterwards. The rain is still pouring down, windshield wipers working overtime.

“And what’s the verdict?” Tom jokes and side eyes him with a small quirk of his lip.

“The church rules; Not guilty. _And_ he wants me to lead a religious discussion group slash bible study for young people on Saturdays.”

“Really? After that stunt you pulled?”

“Yeah. Weird, huh? It’s because Bonahue is very concerned about my generation and those younger than me losing interest in God. And apparently he overheard two girls talking about me this morning. I don’t know what they said, except it wasn’t all that, I quote, ‘suitable for young ladies to express in public. Or _at all_ , for that matter’,” Noah sniggers.

Tom laughs. “I can imagine what they said.”

“I may have an inkling too after today. Today has been a weird school day. Anyway, I think he wants to use me as some kind of PR stunt for church. I said I’d think about it.”

“It would make it easier to push the reform you’re after,” Tom points out.

“I know. I’m just not sure about if I want to give up my Saturdays for it. Some days you need for yourself. I mean, I want to watch you shoot, and you often compete on Saturdays. Or sometimes I want to hang with friends, play Xbox, or just chill. You know what I mean? I’m thinking, why not Wednesday evenings? If it is going to draw younger people to church, it doesn’t have to be on our only day off. Saturday is the only day I don’t have to set the alarm. I deserve one day to say ‘fu― screw it’, and slack off, or I’d go mad. And on top of that, he wants to know what I’m going to say in advance. I don’t want to be censored. If that’s what he’s looking for, then I might as well organise this on my own, and find some other place than church to meet.”

“Could be worth considering, taking other paths than those already walked,” Tom agrees neutrally.

“Yeah… dad. You have no idea how weird school was today. I’ve had people come talk to me that I’ve barely even knew existed, despite going to the same school and church. And Mr.Applegate spent the whole math lesson lecturing us about depravity, trying to undo the impact of my speech. _He_ said, you can’t change the will of God all willy nilly, which I’m not trying to, I’m trying to steer us right, towards what God wants. Then Millie asked if he got his prayers answered too, like me, and I swear, he turned red in the face, he was so angry. But in Mrs.Wilson's class she instead asked me to tell them about my ‘visions’, as she called it. I think she thinks I’ve had _actual_ visions. I was a bit bolder there, talking about my interpretation of ‘sodomite’, and how everyone are judged by their actions, even the people we’ve been referring to as sodomites. I said that unless homosexuality is paired with cruel and selfish behaviour, the sins we've committed to _fight_ it, are far worse. Dad, you wouldn't believe how many are actually willing to listen and want a change. At least amongst my peers. I guess I'm not the only one questioning.”

“No. And Mrs.Wilson has always been quite liberal, even compared to our family.”

“Yeah. I got that. Dad, today's been totally insane! People are mad. Some actually believe that _I_ started the rain. Like, for real. I can assure you, it was just a fluke. But some…” Noah trails off and stares out of the windshield with eyes wide in disbelief, shaking his head. For a moment he’s quiet, then he picks up again, as if he continued the sentence, just forgot to do it aloud. “So they've come to me and asked me to pray for them, as if I was an order collector and God some kind of genie, granting wishes to whoever asks. It’s distasteful. Like I would ever pray that they'd get a car for their birthday, or worse, that a girl they hate would fail today's test. Pffhah. They obviously don't know me, asking for things like that. You want a car that bad? You work for it, okay? You know what she answered?” Noah demands indignantly. Tom shakes his head, amused by Noah’s babbling. “Dad. She looked at me like _I_ was stupid, and said ‘If I have to work, I won't have time to drive the car’.”

Tom laughs. “Sounds like a woman that'll go far in life,” he says, making Noah snigger.

“Yeah. By foot,” Noah adds in a sarcastic tone. Tom chuckles. Noah goes on talking. A friend of his had driven him directly to church after school, and Noah’s eager to share his topsy-turvy day when he finally has Tom within reach. “Some asked me to pray for sick relatives and stuff. And sure, I can do that. As long as they don't expect miracles to happen. I don’t think God answers prayers that way or the Croatoan wouldn’t have bit us after the two first cases with the amount of prayers I’ve… Anyway, one guy, Arnie, his mom has cancer. She’s an atheist, and Arnie isn’t sure that he believes in God either. When I said that prayers doesn’t work like a cure all, he said it doesn’t matter. He said, and I think this is really neat and deep. He said that it doesn't matter if God exists or answers prayers. He said that it comforts him. That it’s comforting to know that people sends well wishes to his mom, even if it's just a brief thought from a stranger. Like, good thoughts accumulate? And he said that when people like me, who believe so strongly, pray, it’s one of the nicest things we can offer, just because prayers mean so much to _us_. I hadn't thought about it like that. He seemed very spiritual and I really want to sit down and talk to him, because even if he is an atheist, things he said was very thought worthy. And he wasn't mocking at all, like some non believers are. We exchanged phone numbers and we decided to have coffee after school this week.”

“Many atheists and agnostics are spiritual, Noah,” Tom says.

“Yeah, I know. I know. I guess I haven’t met many who admit to be atheists. And the few I’ve spoken to have been assholes about it.”

Tom’s lips twitches in amusement.

Noah notices and follows his train of thoughts. “Alright. So many Christians are assholes about being Christians too. Heh. Otherwise I hadn’t had to take steps to cause a reform around here. Anyway, did I tell you? Martin and Nina have set a date. We’re invited to their wedding next year in February.”

“That’s nice.”

“We can go, right? I mean, Oklahoma is far away and all, but you only get married once in life.”

“Of course we can. Why wouldn’t we?”

“Good. Because I already promised we’d come.”

Tom chuckles. “If you made the promise, why are you even asking?”

“Because I want you to come along. You helped save his life too. Oh, oh, I didn’t tell you what else happened at school!” Noah says, jumping through subjects as if he’s got a deadline to tell everything before they get home. “So people came to talk to me, right? But not everyone wanted to talk about my speech, or ask me to pray for them or whatever. I got propositioned _three times_. Would you believe that? Girls, honest to God, offered to have sex with me!” Noah’s eyes go wide and he makes a what-the-hell expression.

Tom laughs. “Well, Champ, you displayed a huge amount of courage, charisma, and leadership abilities yesterday. To a lot of people that equals sex appeal. I’d expect to be courted both vulgarly and appropriately from now on if I were you...”

“Huh. Yeah, I hadn’t expected _that_. Why do they even bother? Sure, I haven’t taken the chastity vow, but it’s not exactly a secret that I want to wait until I find the right one. And even if they don’t know that, how much of a hypocrite do they think I am? I spend _a lot_ of my free time in church. People know that. Do they just expect me to jump into the bathroom with them for a quickie before I head off to church to devote the rest of my time to Christ?”

Tom sniggers. “You really took offense at that, didn’t you?”

Noah mutters something incoherent and looks out the side window. “I guess,” he says a bit louder. “If they want to sleep with me, they can at least try to get to know me first. I’m not just a piece of meat. And― What’s so funny? Dad, why are you laughing?” Noah says irritably and looks back at Tom, whose shoulders are shaking with held back mirth.

“Sorry, son. I was expecting that little speech coming from Jessi, not from you. Getting indecent propositions from strangers is more of a woman’s problem. I know the feeling though. Fame has its backsides. Some of my former teammates would disagree, but the puck bunnies made me uncomfortable, throwing themselves at us, caring nothing about the sport, how we played, or who we were, as long as we were ‘hot’.”

Noah nods. “Yes. I’m not interested. The sooner they figure that out the better. Oh, and people have been asking me questions about God’s will all day. As if _I_ had all the answers. I’d find that annoying but… There were two people that stood out and kinda made me go ‘Woah!’ for different reasons. One guy―and I promised him to meet up tomorrow at lunch to talk―he’s being treated like Justin, and… and like you I suppose, by his parents. That’s my guess anyway. He asked me if I could tell him what God wanted from him, so his parents would be happy with him. We got to talking when he asked that, and that’s when he started to confessing small things about his home life. You’d never tell by looking at him. Dad, he always seems happy, does well in school, and he’s just so _nice_. But the guy barely has any will to live anymore and that just horrible. He’s got no one to talk to, so that’s when I decided to have lunch with him in private tomorrow. Mrs.Wilson offered to let us use her office. I mean, I’ve got you and mom and Jessi, and even Bonahue to talk to when I need spiritual advice, support, and encouragement. And praying, of course. But he… to him God isn’t a solace _at all_. If he talks to Bonahue, he knows he’s going to get judged too and… priests are supposed to be someone you come to for guidance, not judgement. Dad. Our church needs something like Catholic confessions, but different, because I don’t believe just telling someone about your sins and chant a set prayer or twenty is enough. That’s not how you pray. Prayers are personal and should be felt inside. Anyway he made an impression. It made me curious about how others experience their relationship with God. I’ve always assumed most feel like me. You know, that God is a source of strength, comfort and hope?” He looks at Tom like Tom would know exactly what that feels like. Tom doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He keeps his face carefully neutral and amicable. “Or that they feel like Jessi. Like, ‘Yeah, God exist, but as long as I’m a good person, I don’t bother Him and He doesn’t bother me’,” Noah adds.

Tom snorts in amusement. “I suppose Jessi’s never been one to read the fine print.”

“Nah. But what can you do, huh? You can lead a horse to the water, but not force it to read the Bible.”

Tom laughs. “Did you just call your sister a horse?”

Noah sniggers unapologetically. Tom shakes his head and tuts. Sometimes he wishes he had siblings too. But then he remembers that they’d have the same parents as him and then he’s glad he doesn’t. Either his parents would just measure him against them, or they’d have the same upbringing as him. No. In his case he’s glad he’s an only child.

“And then, at school,” Noah says, getting them back on track so he could tell Tom everything he wanted before he forgot anything, “there was this girl…”

Tom’s exhausted mind has trouble keeping up with Noah. It warms him that his son is so eager to talk to him and confide in him. It means that he and Grace have done something right, despite all the mistakes they’ve surely made. But at the same time, Noah’s trust puts great pressure on him that is hard to bear in his current state of mind.

“...she…,” Noah goes on. “...it was so strange. I've never seen her before. Yet apparently she's in my chemistry class. I guess she's one of those invisible ones… but she came to me and asked if God could forgive her. I asked what she'd done and she said ‘nothing’. When I asked her to explain she wouldn't meet my eyes. She just made some excuse and went away. Really weird.”

Tom’s gut clenches. He feels discomfort crawl under his skin. “I'm willing to bet my life that she's queer, Noah. It’d take a great amount of courage to come talk to you. Admitting that she's lesbian, bi, or deviant in any other way, could be very dangerous to her if you're not as open minded as you appear to be. She'd be living in fear every day of her life. Thread carefully with her. And don’t tell anyone what I believe. I could be wrong.”

“But you don't think you are?”

Tom shakes his head. “No.” A thought strikes him. “There’s another possibility too, and it’s just as bad and would require just as much courage from her part.”

“What?”

“She could be a victim of sexual abuse.”

“But if she is, it isn’t her fault, and there would be nothing for God to forgive her for,” Noah argues.

“That may be, but a rape victim feels deeply ashamed and guilty about what’s happened. And they might have been threatened by their abuser. Not only with violence, but they might have been told that nobody would believe them, or that they’d be thrown out from their home, or that nobody could love them, or want to touch them if the truth came out. They’ll be battling doubts of their own already, thinking that they could have stopped it from happening if they’d just done something differently. They’ll be ashamed for not fighting it harder, nevermind that they probably were scared shitless and in a position where they _couldn’t_ fight, whether it be by a gun to their head, several assailants, a close relative, a teacher, or that they were stranded in an isolated place. They may have experienced lust while the rape took place, and feel extremely ashamed and guilty about it.” Tom has a lot more to say on the subject, but Noah cuts him off.

“Come on, dad. Nobody _likes_ getting raped, or it isn’t rape,” he says. Luckily his curious and open body language and tone makes it a question rather than the statement it’s worded as.

“No. But you can experience pleasure even if you don’t want to. The body is built for it. Think, Noah.” Tom’s voice is chastising. “If a child experience pleasure when they’re molested by an adult, is it not rape?”

“Of course it is.”

“Same with adults. When we’re forced into situations we can’t control, many of us has an ability to distance our soul from what’s happening to us. So a rape victim could have distanced themselves as good as they could, while the shell they left behind took pleasure by necessity as not to break. Are you following? Because this is important. Somebody who ‘just lets it happen’ does so because they think they have no other choice, or because fighting it is a much worse choice. Piling more shame and guilt on them could lead to them not having any will to go on living. And being a victim of rape seriously obstructs their ability to have a healthy relationship or sexlife in the future. I want you to use every ounce of empathy and understanding in you, if anybody ever confesses to be a victim of sexual abuse to you. You’ve seen Good Will Hunting, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Remember the scene where Robin William’s character, what was his name again?”

“Sean. He was a therapist.”

“Exactly. Remember the scene where Sean tells Will ‘It was not your fault,’ and Will says ‘I know’ dismissively?”

Noah nods. “Yeah, and Sean goes ‘No. Listen to me, Will. It was _not_ your fault!’, and Will kinda just shrugs and says ‘I know’ again.”

“That scene, yes. Where Sean just keeps repeating it until Will finally breaks down crying, saying ‘Oh God, I’m sorry’. It’s a good movie, but I think that scene really hits a nerve when it comes to victims of abuse― _any_ kind of abuse. Sexual, emotional, physical, it doesn’t matter. Victims may _know_ it’s not their fault, but really _believing_ in it is another matter. And from what you’ve told me about your day today, that stunt you pulled yesterday made some people see you as a beacon of hope where there were none before. Anyone who comes to you, seeking your counsel and confiding in you - you better be as supportive as you can, and keep that trust they give you. Only break it if they say something that makes you think somebody’s life is in danger. I’m begging you, son, _don’t_ say anything that puts more blame on a victim of abuse.”

“This sounds personal to you. You know any rape victims?” Noah wants to know. 

“Yes,” Tom answers in a tone that doesn’t invite further questioning.

Noah’s seldom one to push when someone doesn’t want to talk. Neither’s Jessi for that matter. Tom’s grateful for it.

“So this girl… if she isn’t an abuse victim, but lesbian. What do you think I should do then?”

“Should a queer person confide in you, they will undoubtedly be a victim of abuse one way or another. They have to deny a huge part of who they are to stay safe and accepted. They’ve had to listen to our priests telling them they’re the lowest lowlife in existence, with no chance of redemption, every Sunday of their lives. They’ve heard words for what they are used as insults and seen people react with disgust and anger to being called those words. They’ve gotten to hear that they’re the cause of the Croatoan, and that the drought is their fault too. They can’t experience puberty and their first crush like normal people. Looking too long at their crush might out them. Keeping a diary, writing the name of the one they’re in love with in notebooks, drawing a heart around the crush in the yearbook, keeping a photo of them in their wallet or as background on their phone, all these things may lead up to them getting beat up, thrown out from their home, lose their friends… Noah, any queer person growing up in our town is abused by default. How you choose to deal with the knowledge is up to you. But realise that should anyone tell you they’re homosexual, if you out them to anyone else, you pretty much guarantee that they’ll meet the same fate as Martin. Only, then there’s no guarantee you’ll be around to save them. Son, I don’t know if you realise what it might mean to a gay or lesbian here, to hear you say that God has revealed to you, that they too should be welcome in church, and that God might be willing to forgive them. If they heard you at Mrs.Wilson’s class, they’ll be drawn to you like a moth to a flame. You’re the first devoted Christian here to openly acknowledge them as human beings in my lifetime.”

Noah doesn’t seem to like the sound of that. He gnaws his nail and lours. “You actually believe there could be queer people in our town?”

“Yes. I’m sure there are.”

Noah nods and falls silent, disappearing in deep reverie. Tom leaves him to it, in deep thoughts of his own, centered around Noah’s speech. 

When they start nearing home Tom speaks up. “Noah. You seem so sure about your thing. About God not finding homosexuality such a big deal... Did God really answer your prayers?”

“Yeah. In a way.”

“So how do you know he answered?”

“You know that feeling when you pray and suddenly you're filled with a sense of clarity and calm, and you just _know?_ No matter how hard and painful it's going to be, or the risks involved, or the sacrifices you'll need to make, you’re swept into a blanket of comfort, and you no longer feel afraid. That feeling.”

Tom chuckles. “No. I don’t know. The closest I've come to feeling like that was on the ice, playing hockey.”

Noah raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Really? You've _never_ gotten that feeling while praying?”

“Never.”

“Huh. ….but when you play hockey?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“Do you get that feeling often when you pray?” Tom wonders.

“No. It’s only happened a few times before. I always feel comforted by the fact that there _is_ a God, but this, getting my prayer answered, it’s rare.” 

“Is it… is it just that you suddenly feel comforted? How do you know it’s God, and not just yourself? How can you be sure?” Tom needles, trying not to sound desperate.

Noah doesn’t take offense at being questioned. “I don’t know, dad. It’s hard to properly explain the feeling, because it’s so big. If you’d felt it, you’d known too. I feel it inside of me, but it’s not coming from within.” Noah looks at Tom while he talks, gesturing vaguely with his hands. “It’s like… Okay, so look. I’ve got two kinds of prayers. There’s the wishes, like, ‘Please, help dad and Jessi have a speedy recovery’, - that kind of prayers, and then there’s the conversation prayers. If something’s bothering me, I want to fix it, right? So I think about the problem. Like why did God let the Croatoan bite us. I think about it a lot, and when I have a thought, that I think may be the reason, I pray about it. Like, I clear my mind and begin my prayer by explaining the question I’ve been asking myself. Then I explain the conclusion and ask for guidance. I leave myself open to an answer. Like, I don’t have any thoughts at all after I’ve asked for guidance, I, um, just, empty myself? Then I wait. If nothing happens I’m not right. It doesn’t mean I’m wrong, but I’m not _right_.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean that when I repeat my conclusion the next night, but alter it slightly, I could get an answer. I have to both ask the right question _and_ think of the right conclusion, for God to answer me at all.”

“And how do you know when He answers?” Tom insists, not understanding and desperately wanting to.

Noah makes a frustrated sound. “It’s so hard to put it into words. The first time I got an answer I was five or six years old I think. Maybe younger. My memories from that age kinda blur together. And it’s only happened a few times in my life. Anyway, the feeling I got when I was five, when I feel it, I know I’ve gotten an answer. It’s like… I mean, I can’t empty myself wholly. It’s impossible. There’s always feelings inside. Like worry. Sadness. Fear. I’ve been so afraid this year. Scared shitless. And I know men aren’t supposed to be, but _dad_. When I was down by the trailer park helping mom take care of the sick... I’ve watched two people _die_. And I’ve been surrounded by so much grief and fear… it’s bound to rub off, right? When you and Jessi were sick, _Jesus_. I―“ Noah’s voice suddenly cracks and he turns his head towards the side window, hiding his face. “Jessi was fine, but you were so, _so_ sick. And with David losing his dad… I. I get that you and mom are going to die before me. Like, I _know_ that. It’s the natural order of things, right? But you’re only 38. I’m supposed to be allowed to keep you for thirty to fifty more years. I don’t know how I’d be able to deal with losing you now, you know? Shit, dad. You don’t know how scared and small and hopeless I’ve felt. And when you were sick, and I thought I was going to lose you...” His voice is hovering at the edge of being choked off, but he’s speaking levelly, in control.

Tom has to turn the car to the side of the road and park it. It’s hard to breathe. He swallows. And swallows again, trying to get control of his emotions and keep from crying. He should probably say something, but the lump in his throat is too big. The sheer **guilt** of it all is overwhelming. His eyes sting and he squeezes the steering wheel to calm himself. Noah turns his head to look at him. His eyes are glossy from unshed tears too, and there’s so much controlled pain in them. Tom hates himself for almost making reality of Noah’s fear.

_Oh Lord! Cursed be Thy name! Why must you do this to me? Noah’s a man grown, he’s supposed to be fine without me! I can’t bear this cross you’ve given me. I **can’t**!_

Noah doesn’t ask why they pulled over. He doesn’t have to. He understands―or thinks he does. “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault that you nearly died. I’m just… I want you to understand, dad. These feelings. I have them constantly. I can empty myself of thoughts, but the feelings remain inside of me, and that’s what I’m trying to explain. But when I pray and God answers, it’s like they all go away, like being filled with sunshine and light. But light you can’t see. For a moment everything is clear and still and I just know what I must do. That I have to do something to make us change. It’s not like God’s talking or anything. Just… You believe me, right, dad?”

“How do you know it’s not the Devil answering your prayer, misleading you?” Tom asks, surprised about how level his voice is despite the turmoil within.

“I just know. You’d know it too. Besides, the devil promotes the violence and hatred we’ve been nursing. I hate that I too got swept up in it. It’s easy, _simpler_ , to point a finger when you’re as scared as I was. Still am.” Noah’s voice regains its steadiness, and he’s no longer appearing as small. “And I feel awful and disgusted at myself for being part of something that led to the attack on Martin. It was really hard to admit that to myself. _Really_ hard. It’s stupid, you know? I’ve heard you say ‘ _Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven,_ ’ a million times. But it’s somehow been understood that ‘sodomites’ don’t fall under that umbrella. In church… the way we’re taught to read the Bible… lots and lots of people are put outside of that forgiveness, and we believe it’s how God wants it. The Bible contradicts itself in so many places, but we’ve been taught what to ignore and what to heed to follow God’s true will. We’ve been wrong about what that is.”

Noah’s conviction makes that painful hope cut like a knife inside of Tom. He wants to ask Noah if God could forgive him, just as the girl had done. He wants to ask Noah if _Noah_ could forgive him, even if God can’t. He doesn’t dare. Not yet. And if he has to choose between the two of them, he’d choose Noah’s forgiveness before God’s, even if he thinks he’ll get it from neither.

“Dad, how do you pray? What does it feel like to you?” Noah wants to know.

“Me and God… we're not… not exactly on speaking terms,” Tom admits reluctantly. 

“Why not? Because you can’t play hockey anymore?”

Tom shrugs. “It’s more to do with me cheating on your mom. But I guess hockey plays a part of it too. I'm not… maybe we can talk about it some day, but not today. I'm more curious to know about your calling, if that's what it is?”

“Maybe. There’s no doubt in my mind that God's displeased with our judgemental ways and that He wants us to change. And I can’t just stand around waiting for someone else to take the lead. I'm not sure if it means I should become a priest or not. And I haven’t figured out exactly how to do it yet. But you don’t have to be a priest to do God's work. And John’s tattoo is right. God lives in all of us. It’s been… It’s been hard to realise that our priests are wrong. That Nana and Gramps, Grandma and Grandpa are wrong. That all of us are wrong. What I need to do now is figure out what’s right, apart from stopping the violence that prevents people from finding the light of God. And I know that when I do figure it out, God will confirm it for me.”

“Just remember that you can’t save everybody. If you devote yourself fully to this, it may break you.”

Noah chuckles. “Yeah. That’s why I think I need to have Saturday as my own day, to recharge.”

“Sounds wise. What's Jessi said about all this?”

“Um… I haven't told her,” Noah says sheepishly and looks apologetic. “She’s gonna gloat and be all ‘I told you so’ about it. I'll admit that this, what I'm doing, scares the living shit out of me. And I don’t need anyone making fun of me for being wrong before, until I feel a bit more sure on my feet, if you get what I mean? I figured I'd tell her when she and Justin come home for Christmas.”

“We don’t know if they'll be home for Christmas yet.”

Noah perks up. “They didn’t tell you? Both of them are coming. Jessi wanted to come and Justin doesn’t have anyone but us to celebrate with. Can you believe Justin was worried we’d feel intruded upon if he joined us for Christmas? I guess he’s yet to believe that we really see him as part of the family.”

“We’ll convince him he is. Sooner or later he’ll believe us,” Tom says and starts the car again now that the worst emotions have settled down.

“We will. What do you think we should give him for Christmas presents? I was thinking…” Noah prattles on for the rest of the car ride home, then promptly disappears upstairs. Tom should take care of the laundry, but he feels drained after the emotional ride back home. He goes down to the den lies down on top of his bed instead. He takes his bible and opens it where he’d used Noah’s speech as a bookmark. He reads 1 Corinthians 13, then reads the last paragraphs of Noah’s speech again. And again. And again.

Tom had thought this was huge. Just standing up, making the speech, threatening to leave if things don’t change. But this was far bigger than he’d anticipated. Noah wasn’t planning to just stand up, say his thing, then sit down again and hope for the best. He’d taken this on as a mission, from what it seemed like.

Noah hadn’t claimed that homosexuality isn’t a sin. What he’d done was to claim that compassion and forgiveness comes first, and that homosexuals will be judged on the same basis as everybody else. That homosexuality was just one sin amongst many, and that good behaviour could make up for it. “ _I no longer believe that a man loving another man, truly is an unforgivable crime against God._ ”

Noah says his prayers were answered.

He could be delusional. Or misled by the Devil. Or he could be right. He is so sure, and Tom wants so badly for him to be right.

_If being gay is just one sin amongst many… it would make me the good man everyone tells me I am._

He shies away from the thought like burned. Afraid of the hope flaring in his chest. You can’t break a broken heart, but if the heart is healed first… He’s afraid that if he dares to believe, and Noah is proven wrong or changes his mind, it’ll hurt so much more.

He wonders how it feels like, the feeling Noah described when God answers him. 

_How can you be so certain it’s really God, Champ? How? What if you’re wrong?_

He runs his fingers over the redeeming paragraph in the speech, then folds it and puts it back inside the bible. After putting the bible back on the nightstand he closes his eyes. He wallows in guilt thinking about the pain in Noah’s eyes when he spoke about his fear of losing Tom. It’s strange that it just makes Tom want to pull the trigger even more, which makes him feel even more guilt. He’s a bad father. He can’t hear the rain down here in the den, but the sound of thunder reaches him.

He gets up to light some tealights. He isn’t afraid of thunder, but he’s always found tealights and candles comforting when it thunders. Maybe it’s because of those times when he was a kid and a thunderstorm cut the power. They’d lit candles and sat in the living room together. He’d been curled up by his mother’s side while his father had read aloud to them with the help of a flashlight. He’d read the bible or some book with approved content. If they’d had ice cream at home they ate it in case it’d melt if the power didn’t return soon enough.

_John has a thing for tealights and candles._

_Good job, Tommy. Tear your heart out, why don’t you?_ he thinks sarcastically to himself in the wave of grief and longing that hits him when he thinks of John and their date at his place. He wonders when he started referring to himself as ‘Tommy’. John’s the one who calls him that, but he’s never called himself that before him. The nickname is synonymous with so many good things for him, the same way ‘Thomas’, when said by someone close to him, makes him anticipate being critiqued. 

Jessi and Justin’s coming home for Christmas. That piece of information doesn’t make him as happy as it should. It’s bad, because he longs for Justin to come home and hold him. He shouldn’t seek comfort with the boy. And Juss will not be happy to find out John had uncovered their secret…

After sitting on the armrest of the couch, staring at nothing, lost in thoughts for who know how long, he get up and blows out the tealights to get rid of the reminder of John. He tries fleeing his thoughts by going upstairs, thinking that doing the laundry will distract him. It’s such an exhausting chore all by itself, that maybe his head will stop hammering him with unwanted thoughts.

He enters the laundry room just to find the washing machine and dryer already going, and the clean laundry neatly folded. His first reaction is relief, then guilt. It was supposed to be his job.

He turns and walks towards the kitchen. He’s surprised to find Noah in there, lifting a pot from the stove and pouring pasta into a strainer.

“Son. You don’t have to do that…”

Noah looks up, sees him and smiles. “Don’t worry, dad. I don’t mind. You hungry? I made enough for the both of us. Mom’s staying over at grandma and grandad’s tonight.”

“What did I do this time?” Tom says ruefully and goes to set the table for the two of them. He’s not hungry, but he’ll eat anyway to hide that he hasn’t had an appetite for a long time.

Noah laughs and shakes his head. “Nothing, dad. Grandma’s joints are bothering her again. She asked mom to help her with something that’d take all evening and mom’s apprehensive about driving in a thunderstorm in the dark, so she decided to stay the night.”

“Ah, so you’re the culprit,” Tom jokes and smirks.

Noah looks confused for a bit, then he gets the rain joke. “Oh, har har. Funny dad,” he says sarcastically, but Tom can see him grinning when he turns back towards the stove.

* * *

They’re eating mostly in silence, Noah reading a schoolbook and Tom staring at the rain smattering on the windows. The food―pasta with a simple tomato sauce―is pretty good, Tom thinks, even if it’s hard to get it down. His body’s rejecting the notion of eating, but Tom takes a small second helping to show Noah that he appreciates the food.

“I’m going to smoke indoors tonight. If you want to smoke under the kitchen fan, go ahead. I’ll take the blame if Grace gets mad,” Tom says when they’re done and have washed up together.

“Thanks. I’ve been dying for a smoke all day.”

The way the rain’s pouring down, and the low temperature makes it more or less impossible to smoke outside. Especially if you smoke to relax. They move three chairs to the stove. Tom takes out his cigarettes, his lighter, and places an ashtray on the stove. They sit down and put their feet up on the third chair. Tom offers Noah a cigarette before lighting his own.

It’s bliss.

Or as close to it as he comes these days.

Tom closes his eyes and lets out smoke slowly, feeling himself relax.

“I’ve been thinking of what you said before,” Noah says. “About abuse victims taking on blame.”

“Mhm?” Tom opens his eyes and turns his head to look at Noah.

“Dad… Do you think what Nana and Gramps did to you was your fault?”

“I…” Oh boy. Tom hadn’t seen that question coming. “I tried to do everything they demanded of me, and nothing I’ve ever done was good enough for them, with the exception of marrying Grace and producing you two. Of course it wasn’t my fault.” Tom shakes his head. “John told me they used to brag about me, about how good I am at this and that, but they never let me know that. It was always ‘Why didn’t you do it _better_?’ or ‘At least you didn’t mess up this time’ when they talked to me. I really tried my best to be perfect for them, and couldn’t. I…”

Noah’s been taking a drag on his cigarette, listening. Now he blows the smoke out in a sharp puff. “So you _do_ think it’s your fault,” he states.

“No, I―“

“You said so yourself, that victims of abuse often know they’re not to blame, but have trouble believing it. It sounds to me like you still think that you could have done better, and that _you_ failed to be perfect for them. But to me and Jessi you’ve always said that it’s a parent’s job to make their child feel loved, safe, and help them grow strong and confident. You’ve said, and mom has confirmed, that you’ve looked to your parents to see how _not_ to raise a child. Dad…” Noah leans forward and points at Tom with his cigarette holding hand. “It was never your job to be perfect for them. What they did to you, was _wrong_. You, are a victim of emotional abuse. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn't your responsibility. They failed you, not the other way around. They’re obviously capable of treating children well as they’ve always been good to me and Jessi, respecting our privacy and not criticising us too harshly when we did and said something they disagreed with. They _chose_ not to give you the same respect. And you never have to forgive them for it if you don't want to. If you don’t want them in your life, you shouldn't forgive them for our sake. Okay?”

Tom is shaken. This came out of nowhere. His cigarette hangs forgotten in his hand, halfway to his mouth. “Jesus Christ, Noah,” he says, not knowing how else to respond. His mouth has drawn into a grin all by itself―a self defensive expression, smiling for the cameras. His other hand goes to his face and he bites a nail. 

Noah leans back and takes a deep drag on his cigarette. 

“What happened to being non judging and forgiving?” Tom asks, trying to get the jumble of emotions untangled. 

“It’s a difference between judging strangers without knowing them and having to forsake your own self-respect to uphold a relationship with somebody. If Nana and Gramps take no action to redeem themselves to you, you don’t need to forgive them―leave that up to God. I've tried talking to them about your conflict, and they don't think they've done anything wrong. _They_ think your relationship was exactly like it should be until you shut the door in their faces, and they're not interested in hearing your side of the story or compromising. They think you’re denying them access to things they have a right to―me, Jessi, and mom. But we're not property, and neither are you. You don’t owe them a shred more respect than they show you. The way they’re behaving, it means you owe them _nothing_. I'm serious, dad. The way I've seen them behave lately, the things they've said… I believe you. And it’s not your fault,” he repeats. He’s soft spoken and calm, trying to keep a neutral expression. But Tom can see that the subject makes him upset and sad. 

“The bible says to turn the other cheek…” Tom says, finally remembering his cigarette and inhaling a deep lungful of smoke. He notice that his hand is trembling.

“True. But it says nothing about having to remain in place and take the abuse.”

_Bless you and damn you for bringing up all these topics, Noah._

“ _Shit,_ ” Tom mutters and presses his thumb and forefinger against his eyelids to stave off tears. 

_‘I believe you. It’s not your fault.’_

“It’s okay, dad.”

“No, it’s not. It’s not your job to be my support and comfort. It’s the other way around.” 

_‘I believe you. It’s not your fault.’_

Tom’s barely begun to understand the anger he feels towards his parents. Talking about them with John, then Justin, helping Justin escape, confirming to Justin that he shouldn’t have been treated that way, that there’s nothing wrong with him, hearing John and his family confirm it, John’s supportiveness… all that, and still. He'd told Noah about abuse in the car, but never really realised that he was talking about himself. He'd called his parents’ treatment of him abuse when he argued with Jessi about it. But somewhere deep inside he still thought he was to blame and was in the wrong. Even if he refused to talk to his parents―he doesn’t have the energy for it―he’s thought he's doing something wrong by denying them.

_‘...you never have to forgive them…’, ‘I believe you. It’s not your fault.’_

Noah sniggers. The sound is so misplaced in Tom’s emotional inner, that it makes him remove his hand from his eyes and look at Noah. “Hey, you guys taught us how to do it. I'm just practising what I've learned,” Noah says, almost smugly, coaxing a little disbelieving laugh out of Tom. Noah turns serious again. “There’s no rules about who is allowed to support who, dad. I haven’t gone a single day in my life doubting that you love me, and would be there for me when I need it. It’s a bit… it’s a bit hard to realise that Nana and Gramps… that they never let you feel the same. And it’s really hard for me to realise that people I love, who’s always been good to me, can be such… bullies, I suppose. I've felt very guilty about not seeing it,” Noah raises his hand to stop Tom from interrupting when he sees Tom draw breath to speak. Tom lets his breath out again, keeping quiet. Both of them take a drag on their cigarettes and taps ashes off before Noah goes on. “Like I said, I've felt guilty about it, just as I've felt guilty about adding my voice to others, talking about what should be done about ‘sodomites’, when what I've said led up to the attack on Martin.” Once again he raises his hand to stop Tom from speaking. “But I figured I can wallow in guilt and do nothing, or I can accept that I was wrong―or in Nana and Gramps case―blind, and move on, trying to do something about it. Nana and Gramps are the responsible party. _They_ are the ones that should feel guilty. If they don’t, I won't mantle that burden for them. It’s not my fault that they're so set in their ways, that they can't even apologise to you. Or Justin for that matter. And it’s not your fault either,” Noah finishes. He takes a last drag of his cigarette and squishes it in the ashtray. 

“Are you set on making your old man cry tonight?” Tom says, fighting tears all over again. He’s smiling though, proud and warmed by what Noah says. That's wisdom. How Noah have come to learn these things at this young age, Tom has no idea.

_Who are you, and what have you done to my little boy?_

Noah chuckles. “I gotta do something for fun around here, don't I?” he jokes and smirks. Then he snorts in amusement, raises his hand to his mouth and bites a nail. “Imagine what Nana and Gramps would say if they’d read my whole speech. _Oh_ boy. I’d be toast,” he says with a chuckle, nail clamped between his teeth.

“Indeed. You realised that while writing it, didn’t you?”

“Yeah…” Noah says around his nail, smiling, voice resigned. “Can’t be helped. I’m not choosing to forsake them, they’re choosing to forsake me. My only requirement from them was that they’d treat my friend with decency and respect. It isn’t too much to ask. I didn’t ask them to seek out Justin’s company, get to know him, or like him, just to not diss him.”

It pains Tom to see Noah reflecting himself. Noah’s smile is for the cameras, the nail biting―Tom’s own nervous gesture―a self-comforting habit. And it angers Tom that his parents got to hurt Noah too. At church when Tom sees them, he _barely_ says hello, and yet they talk about him with others like he hadn’t told them to stay the hell away from him. Noah talks to them there, keeps up appearances, and they talk about Noah as if he still visited regularly. It’s ironic, because it’s struck Tom that they too fear misstepping in the eyes of the congregation.

“No. It isn’t too much to ask. It’s the bare minimum,” Tom agrees. Tom squishes his cigarette in the ashtray and scrutinizes him. He has grown so much. Maybe not in height or width, but in mental maturity. “Son, when did you become a man?” Tom asks rhetorically.

Noah takes the question for face value. Suddenly he looks all small and vulnerable, eyes going all sad puppy. “When people started dying all around me,” he answers.

“Oh, Champ. Come here,” Tom says, holding out his arms. Noah comes, leaning into the hug, bending his neck and hiding his face in Tom’s armpit, like he always used to do as a kid. Just like that, Noah’s back to being a child―a little scared boy carrying the world upon his shoulders, seeking shelter in his daddy’s safe arms. “You’re doing good, Champ. I’m proud of you,” Tom mumbles into his hair.

Noah’s probably too old to be hugging like this. His parents would say it’s unsuitable. Tom doesn’t care. He needs this as much as Noah does. If Noah still finds comfort in him, at least he serves _some_ purpose.

* * *

That night Tom is tossing and turning. Insomnia is nothing new. His brain races from thought to thought. Noah’s answered prayers, John, Justin coming back, John, his uselessness as a parent, John, hockey, John, how he has hurt and is continuing to hurt Grace, John, his conversation with Noah in the car, John…. Finally exhaustion drags him down to the brink of sleep where he isn’t awake, but not asleep either.

_It’s not my fault._

His eyes pop open as if someone had struck a gong above his head, heart racing.

“It’s not my fault,” he says aloud into the darkness. Thunder responds him somewhere in the distance.

He sits up in bed. “It’s not my fault,” he repeats, louder this time.

He’d said so himself. In the car with Noah. Explained how rape works and what effect it has on rape victims. He’d told Noah exactly how he felt, and then added that a victim of rape has no choice. He _had_ no choice. A grown man in a position of power, had taken advantage of him. The coach had known exactly what he was doing. Tom was most likely not his only victim. He’d been a predator, weeding out the weak, knowing how to use their fears against them. As long as Tom was afraid of being outed, the coach held all the power. 

He’d known for a long time on a theoretical level, that it wasn’t his fault, but the feelings of guilt and shame had lingered―the _feeling_ that it was his fault had remained. And… it’s no longer there. It’s gone. What’s left is just anger and sadness over lost innocence. It had taken him 22 years to _believe_ that it wasn’t his fault.

For once the tears that comes are cleansing. He cries and cries, just as much as he’d done in the shower after the first time all those years ago. But this time, he feels emptied, freer, when they finally start to wane. He feels _entitled_ to those tears. 

After that, sleep claims him. Blessed, dreamless sleep.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you guys haven't seen Good Will Hunting (Why not??? Go do so straight away! It's an awesome movie, okay?) here's the [link to the scene referenced in this chapter. ](https://youtu.be/UYa6gbDcx18)


	34. Days Ticking By

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noah's speech had a much greater impact than Tom could have anticipated. It disturbs Tom's daily lonesome suffering, both dragging him down and lifting him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The upcoming chapters, including this one, are all part of one huuuge chapter I decided to divide. I hope it means I can publish them fairly rapid fire. :) As long as my Beta has time and energy to read them, we're golden.

## December 2014

* * *

**December 2nd - 6th**  
Tuesday offers the same downpour but without the thunder. Tom starts the day by dwelling on yesterday. “It’s not my fault,” he says to the empty house. He thinks both of the coach and on his parents. “It’s not my fault,” he repeats while drinking his morning coffee in the kitchen. What he feels about it today is anger. God, he’s so angry at his parents. “I don’t have to forgive them,” he tells the mirror after he’s finished brushing his teeth and shaving. Unlike about the coach, there’s still a nugget of insecurity and doubt concerning his parents, but Noah’s words from yesterday… they’d broke through a wall within, meeting less resistance than before. “It’s not my fault.” He’ll keep repeating it, both within and aloud until he has accepted it fully. He wants to be angry and he doesn’t want to forgive his parents (although there’s still niggling guilt when he thinks of never forgiving). At least Noah will forgive him if he never does. “It’s not my fault,” He says as he puts on his jacket. He feels a bit stupid talking out loud to himself. Noah saying it sounded so much more convincing than his own voice. At least the coach could burn in Hell. _Him_ he can put all the guilt on without feeling guilt of his own. 

God, he’s been so ashamed about it. It still makes him shy away from the thought of how he’d gotten hard and even come at the ministrations. But that had been stolen from him in such a horrible way.

The anger he’s feeling lends him a little extra energy, so Tom finally takes his car to get the damages John did to it fixed. He takes a cab home, then takes the family car to the range. Sadly, John’s not there today. After shooting for a while he goes back home, stopping only to get the tires changed for winter tires. It’s getting colder. If the temperature keeps dropping they’ll have snow soon. Coming home he’s exhausted. He skips out on lunch to go have a lay down. Noah texts him and asks if he can come pick him up after school. After answering Tom takes two painkillers to numb out the pain inside. He manages to catch some sleep again, but is still drained when he goes to pick Noah up.

Noah’s waiting outside of school under the roof above the entrance. He’s not alone. There must be at least ten people around him. Tom only recognises David amongst them. Tom stops as close as he can so Noah can avoid getting wet. Noah shakes a couple hands, gives out two hugs, then hurries over to the car and gets in. His hair sticks to his forehead and neck from how wet he managed to get on the short distance to the car. The kids that had surrounded him starts dispersing as soon as he leaves.

“Hiya, dad. I need to buy a whiteboard or corkboard for my room. Can we stop by someplace to buy one on the way home?” he asks as soon as he’s gotten into the car.

“Sure. Mad day today too?” Tom asks and turns the car around.

“Yeah. Seems yesterday was just the beginning. Today some people have acted the way I feared they would. They’d gone home, told their parents what I’d said, and when their parents opposed what I said they took it as a green light to be grade A assholes. I almost got into a fight when a guy pushed me and called me a fag loving heretic. The only thing I’ve said so far is that homosexuality is a venial sin in God’s eyes and that they should be treated with the same respect as everybody else.” Noah snorts. “The guy is one to talk. He spends his Sundays sleeping in the pews.”

“Did you lash out at him for calling you that?”

“No. Of course not. As you said yesterday, if there are queer people in town, I’d set a very bad example and be a total hypocrite if I reacted upset at being called a fag lover. I didn’t have to respond, because when he moved in on me to push me again, David and Perry joined me, calling him a ‘true’ sodomite, pointing at him and declaring that his behaviour was what I’ve talked about. They proceeded to ask me if he was one of Martin’s attackers, since I haven’t named them, and the guy got spooked. By now it’s general knowledge that Martin’s a norma― sorry. A straight Christian guy, and everyone disapproves of the attack on him, whether they agree with me or not. By then someone had informed Mr.Vaughn of the argument…”

“Oh- _oh_ ,” Tom says.

“Yeah. One would think so, huh? But no. I didn’t get in trouble. The guy got sent to the principal and Mr.Vaughn took me to his office for a private conversation…” Noah bites a nail thoughtfully and looks out the side window. “Dad… did you know Mr.Vaughn had an older brother?”

“No. I didn’t,” Tom answers in surprise. “I’ve never met him.”

“No… Mr.Vaughn is your age isn’t he?”

“He’s two years older than me.”

“Hmm. Alright. Well then you wouldn’t know perhaps… You promise not to tell anyone what I tell you? Not even mom?”

“Certainly. But you know she wouldn’t tell anyone either.”

“I know. But if I’m gonna break a confidence I want to do it myself. And I think I’m gonna need someone to talk to to come to terms with the things people tell me if this is gonna go on. You and mom are my safest bet. Jessi’s so impulsive. I’m not sure I trust her to keep quiet if she gets pissed off and gets the chance to give somebody a smackdown.”

“You know she’s very open minded. She wouldn’t use what you tell her to hurt someone who had put their trust in you.”

Noah turns his head to look at Tom. “That’s not what I’m afraid of. I know she gets a bit vindictive when people are mistreated, and she might use the information to get back at the oppressing party.”

Tom sees what he’s getting at. Jessi is impulsive and has a temperament that may result in her exploding, saying something she shouldn’t. Tom nods. “I see. I promise I will not tell anyone anything you tell me.”

“Good. Mr.Vaughn had a five year older brother. Or has. He’s not sure. Morgan―that’s his name―got kicked out of the house when he was fourteen and Mr.Vaughn was nine. He was forbidden to ever speak with, or about, Morgan again. Mr.Vaughn still thinks of him often. He asked me if I’m sure about what I’ve said, which I am. Then he said that in that case I have his support. He never said out loud that Morgan was homosexual, but it was understood. I tried imagine what I’d feel like if I got kicked out without any money or anywhere to go when I was fourteen… he must have been so scared… I mean, I thought it was horrible that Justin was kicked out even though he had us and is nineteen, old enough to get a job. It’s absurd. How can people do that to their own child?”

“I honestly don't know, Noah. I fell in love with you the moment I first held you and Jessi in my arms, and that feeling has only grown with each moment spent with you. I can’t imagine giving a child of mine the boot. Not for anything.”

“No, yeah. Exactly. I don’t get it. There’s so many tragedies going on below the surface…” Noah sighs and looks sad. “Seems like it’s my job to make people cry. That guy? That I was telling you about yesterday? I had lunch with him today like I promised. His parents are really strict, just like yours. And he had the same problem with them criticising everything he does, punishing him for the smallest misstep and all that. I told him it wasn’t his fault. Said something along the lines of what I said to you yesterday. He started crying and I ended up hugging him, having to comfort him. I reminded him he’s old enough to make his own choices. He could hold on until college next year, or move out and get a job. If he finds a cheap living arrangement he doesn’t even have to drop out of school. Told him that if he parents weren’t happy with him now, nothing he did would ever be good enough. I made an example of you and Justin, without mentioning names. It felt kind of harsh to say it, but somehow he seemed _relieved_.”

_‘I believe in you. It’s not your fault.’_

“It’s a relief to get confirmed that you can do nothing, could have done nothing, to change the way you're treated. Even if it breaks your heart. When you do your best, and your best isn’t good enough, no matter how hard you try… it wears your confidence and self-esteem down. It’s a relief to know there's nothing wrong with you,” Tom says. 

_And to my parents; May you burn in Hell for making my offspring clean up your mess._

“I guess… he's a cool guy. I like him. Gave him my phone number in case he needs to talk.”

“Just be careful, Noah. I've said it before, and I'm saying it again. You can’t save everybody. If you take it upon yourself to support everyone else, it may get too much. Take care of yourself first. Don’t let a bad conscience stop you from saying no.”

“Like you do?”

Tom draws a breath to deny that he does anything of a sort, but then lets it out in a deep sigh. “Yes. Like I do,” he admits defeatedly. Turning down a person in need is next to impossible - no matter what shape he’s in.

Noah laughs at his miserable tone. “I guess it's easier to give others good advice than to follow it yourself, huh?”

“Indeed.”

“Oh, and Clara and Joseph are no longer friends with me,” Noah informs him with a pissy expression. 

“They're very bigoted, and you're better off without them as friends.”

“Have you always thought that?”

“Yes.”

“Why haven’t you said something?”

“It’s not my job to choose your friends for you. I've had some great friends with very questionable morals and opinions in my days. Sometimes people have good sides that make up for the bad.”

“Alright, but from now on I'd like you to tell me if you don't like someone and why. There’s so many new people trying to be friends with me, and I don’t mind getting a second opinion.”

“I'll tell you then.”

“What do you think of David?”

“Great guy.”

“Good. I consider him one of my best friends. We've gotten closer since I helped arrange the food project. And he’s one of my biggest supporters.”

“There you have it.”

“Mmh… Dad. I’ve been thinking…”

Tom dreads that sentence. It’s become synonymous with ‘I'm going to make a mess of your emotions now’. 

“You went to church when you were away, right? During hockey season?” Noah asks curiously and tries to dry off his face using his wet jacket sleeve with inadequate results. 

“Mhm. Any church has a certain feel to it that makes it easier to feel closer to God.”

“Did you listen to many sermons in other churches?”

Tom shakes his head. “I came in mostly during open worship hours, to pray in solitude.”

“Oh. Okay. Dad, I want to visit other churches and listen to other preachers. Could you take me? I’ve looked up every church I can find within reasonable distance. Maybe some of them are more in line with what I believe God wants for us. It’d make it easier to― Hey, speaking of, what are your thoughts about other branches of Christianity? And other religions?” Noah is bubbling with thoughts, brain jumping forward in the conversation without pausing for an answer. 

“There’s only one God.”

“Yeah, I know. But some think there’s more, or have different thoughts of what the will of God is―“

“It’s not what I meant,” Tom says. “I’ve never been very certain of what God wants from us, or what’s wrong or right in his eyes. Plus, it’s a known fact that our God is the same as the jews’, and the muslims’ God. Religion has been around far longer than books and internet, and as such, people have chosen to interpret the Lord in the way their culture, intelligence, and surroundings allowed for. God can be found in everything on Earth. His presence can be felt, but with no previous knowledge, unless he sends an angel, or sends visions, some people may interpret what they feel as spirits, or something else they can put words on. Grasping what can’t grasped isn’t easy. So personally, I think most religions, whether they’re monotheistic or polytheistic, are still based on people having felt the Lord’s presence.”

Noah blinks curiously at him. “You’ve never told me that. You mean, you think _any_ religion could be right? More or less?”

Tom shrugs. Of course he’d never voiced thoughts like this to his children. It was close to blasphemy and more based on hope than actual belief. He believed the things he’d been taught, he just didn’t want them to be true. “Noah, honestly, I don’t know. I believe Christianity is the right belief system, or I wouldn’t be a Christian. And I don’t believe _any_ religion could be right. I can’t… I can’t make myself believe, _for a minute_ , that a Creator would want his followers to destroy what he has made. A painter doesn’t give his art away in hope that the receiver will destroy it. So why would God want us to destroy what he has created? Therefore I refuse to believe that any religion that sacrifices humans or animals has it right. And animal sacrifices is stupid. It implies that we own the animals when they, and we, all belong to Him already. Maybe in the old days when God took his new creation for a test run, to see what he could make us do for him… but now? Never. Apart from that… I think God is present in all religions, whether they acknowledge Him or not. And since He rarely speak directly to us… it’s possible that some of them has hit the bull’s eye in parts of their scripture. I just don’t know, Noah.”

Noah raises his hand and bites a nail thoughtfully. “Nana and Gramps would read you the riot act for saying that,” he states without any accusation.

“In other words, nothing new under the stars,” he mutters.

Noah nods, then looks at Tom. “Can you drive me to the other churches?” he asks again, remembering that Tom hasn’t answered that.

“You could just take the car yourself,” Tom answers, sees the quickly hidden disappointment in Noah’s eyes, and states “...but you don’t want to go yourself.”

“Nah, it’s alright. It’s okay. I mea―“

“I’ll go with you, Champ,” Tom promises, internally fretting about how the hell he will find the strength and energy to keep up with Noah’s self-imposed quest.

“You sure? You don’t have to,” Noah says, but there’s hope in his eyes.

“I’m sure,” Tom says, putting on a smile he hopes is convincing, and keeps his eyes on the road, lest his reluctance show in his eyes.

“Thanks, dad. Can we… can we visit, like a synagogue, a mosque, and maybe a buddhist temple too? I’d like to speak with a rabbi, an imam, and a buddhist monk.”

Tom throws him a questioning look.

“Hey, you said it yourself. God is omnipresent,” Noah says and holds up his hands in defense. “I’m not planning on converting or anything, nor tell them what to think. I just want to talk to them. Hear how they experience their religion instead of reading about it, summed up. Plus, how can I help direct lost souls onto the right path if I don’t listen to people with other views than my own? Martin got beat up, because we refuse to see any other way than our own, and it proved to be wrong way. So right now I’m listening to all, so I can think it over and pray for guidance.”

“In that case, we’ll go there too. But you might want to keep quiet about it until further notice…”

Noah snorts. “No shit. I’m not stupid, dad. Bonahue would kick me out of church no matter how popular I am with my peers, if he found out that I not only listened to other Christian doctrines, but searched out heretics and infidels to hear them out.”

Tom hums in agreement. 

“Already today I’ve got a group of hardcore believers in what I say, and a group of haters. And they are arguing with each other. It’s not like they get it right either. _Ugh_.” Noah sinks down in the car seat tiredly. “I knew this was gonna be hard before I started it, but. I mean, how hard can it be? ‘Treat _everybody_ with respect’. It’s pretty basic. I want to stop the oppression of certain individuals, not trade places on who oppresses who. But some of the haters have managed to twist it around, saying I want ‘sodomites’ preaching at the church, and that I want gay sex to be the only allowed form of getting off. _How_ , dad? _How_ does their brains work if _that’s_ how they interpret what I said in church?”

“Not at all, apparently.”

“No. People are fucking stupid,” Noah says with a grossed out facial expression.

Tom laughs. “Language, Noah,” he prompts by default.

“No, dad. Sorry, but that merits the F word,” Noah says determinedly.

Tom laughs harder. “Okay, son. I’ll give you that one,” he says sniggering, shaking his head.

“Yeah.” Noah snorts in contempt. “And some of them who claim to be on my side are just as dumb. If they’re gonna claim to be followers of mine, they could at least try _listening_ to what I’m trying to say. But no. They’re like ‘Yes! We should end the violence! Let’s beat up everybody who disagrees!’” he mimics parodically and with disgust. “It makes me so…. _Aargh!_ Am I going to be trapped in ‘[Monty Python's Life of Brian](https://youtu.be/yuu9YH7_-T8?t=7m24s)’ from now on, or what? It’s like, ‘No you morons! You’re missing my point!’ It almost makes _me_ want to punch them. But then it all would fall apart on day three already.” He rolls his eyes and lets his head fall back against the headrest, staring at the car roof.

Tom really can’t help laughing.

“This is funny to you?”

“Hilarious,” Tom sniggers.

Noah shrugs, lips drawing into a smirk. “I guess you have to laugh about it. Otherwise it would just make you want to cry, curl up into a ball and give up.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “Anyway, I kept my eyes open for the girl who wanted God to forgive her for nothing, but either she’s avoiding me or she wasn’t there today. I really want to talk to her again. Not that I had any lack of people to talk to. Seems like everyone is avid to let me know their opinion of me, whether they have one or not. I should get a secretary, weeding out the assholes and the morons for me. But then again, if I had one, it might stop some people from approaching me, who really needs it. And there were a few…” Noah proceeds to update Tom about his day, just to disappear upstairs as soon as they get home, carrying the magnetic whiteboard they bought on the way.

A while later the doorbell rings. Tom answers the door. It’s Paul. The mailman had mixed up the mail and a letter to Noah had mistakenly ended up in his mailbox. Tom thanks him and goes upstairs to give it to Noah. His door is open but he’s not inside. Tom goes inside to drop the envelope on his desk. Noah has hung up the whiteboard over his desk and written only one thing on it, with bold capital letters, underlined, it says:

` ** GOOD GOD FEARING PEOPLE ** `` `

Tom drops the letter on the desk and stares at the whiteboard for a while, trying to figure out what it means. Then he shakes himself out of it and leaves the room.

* * *

Wednesday John’s at the range, but barely shoots at all. He just stares and stares at Tom, appearance serious and unreadable, jaw muscles clenching and unclenching repeatedly. It’s making Tom nervous. Tom can’t take it and breaks the unspoken prohibition to talk to John. “You alright, John?” he asks, deeply concerned.

“I’m fine. How about you? Hanging in there?” John deflects, expression barely changing.

Tom shows his teeth in the mimicry of a smile. “By my teeth. …..Nah. I’m fine. Fantastic even. Never been better. Don’t you worry about it.”

John’s nostrils flare, jaws clenching again. He’s scrutinizing Tom as if he’s trying to drill holes into his skull with his gaze. He looks determined, troubled, something else. Tom can’t put his finger on it. He’s not angry, that much Tom thinks he can tell with certainty. The cogs behind those brown eyes are turning and Tom couldn't guess what he’s thinking to save his life. John draws breath through his nose as if he’s about to say something, he opens his mouth and― stalls. Whatever he was about to say just gets stuck for several seconds before he deflates and closes his mouth, pressing his lips together in what possibly is supposed to be a smile. He reaches out and pats Tom on the arm, looking at where he’s touching, then he grabs the arm and gives it a lingering squeeze before turning, walking away without a word. At the exit he turns to look at Tom for a long moment, for once not avoiding his gaze.

Then he’s gone.

Tom feels disconcerted and unsettled. It feels like a point flew him right by in this interaction. Like there was something he should have understood―that John wanted him to understand―that he missed.

* * *

That night his finger hovers above the call button time after time. It’s a mental struggle not to call. But he doesn’t want to force himself on John. If he could just talk to him for a minute at least. Hear his voice.

_When did it get this far? Jesus Christ! When did I lose my heart so completely?_

He even contemplates calling Sam. But the best way to help people get on with their lives is to leave them alone. He has no right to disturb them and disrupt any of their lives.

He just wishes he had someone he could talk to.

He reads Noah’s speech again.

Sleeping eludes him far into the morning.

* * *

The week is a trial for Tom. Noah meets a lot of criticism from older people and peers alike, arranges private meetups with people from school that's approached him. Hears people out in school and acts as both emotional support and guidance. He talks to adults like Mrs.Wilson and Mr.Vaughn that are positive to his ideas, he talks on the phone with who knows who, his networking skills improve dramatically. And every day he makes time to talk with both Tom and Grace about what’s happening, venting his fears and frustrations, as well as ask for advice. On top of all that, he still manages to keep up with school work _and_ pick up chores at home to lighten his parents burden. Tom worries he'll burn himself out before he's turned nineteen. 

It makes Tom happy that he’s so secure in their support that he feels comfortable talking with them about his ideas, considering how far some of his ideas are from the doctrine he's been taught growing up. _But_ , it also exhausts Tom. This far he's only had to act as emotional support, but on Friday evening Noah breezes past on his way out and hands him a schedule. “This is okay, right? You’ll take me, right?” Noah says, eyes all enthusiastic and hopeful.

Tom looks at the paper stuck in his hands. The inside of his head is screaming ‘ _AAAAAAAAAAHHH!_ in panic. There’s one visit to a synagogue next week, and three sermons in neighbouring towns, and the week after that there’s four churches to be visited, then a jump into January with a bunch of dates marked for a lot of other trips, both to rivalling religious centers and to other churches. All of them on weekdays. “Does the rabbi know you’re coming?”

“Of course. I’ve booked a time when it suited him, same with the others. But not the sermons. I figured I could call to check so it isn’t cancelled, on the day we’re supposed to go. You will come with me, right?” he repeats.

“Of course. I promised I would, didn’t I?” Tom says with a smile, biting his nail unconsciously.

“Yesss! Thanks, dad. I’m off to meet up with David. I’ll be home around 11. We’re eating out so don’t worry about grub,” Noah informs him while walking backwards. He raises a hand waving goodbye and turns to jog towards the door. He’s gone before Tom’s finished saying ‘Have fun.’

When he’s gone Tom’s left staring at the schedule. He’s having trouble breathing and starts feeling dizzy. It takes him a beat before he realises he’s having a panic attack. In Tom’s state it’s hard to keep up with daily chores. Keeping up with Noah is like looking out the window to see a still ocean, and go down to take a swim in it just to be met by a tsunami of the 2004 proportions. 

If Tom was his usual self, he’d find his son’s energy inspiring. He’d used words to describe him like dedicated, determined, effective, thorough. But Tom isn’t in the vicinity of his usual self. Now the number one word he’d use is ‘overwhelming’. If you’d listen to Tom describe his son right now, you’d think Noah was running around like crazy, preaching visions in the streets, singing hallelujah with mad eyes. Which isn’t even close to the truth. If you were one of those who approached Noah at this stage, you’d find him to be calm, serious, collected. But most of all, you’d feel like he really is listening to you, and that you are important. Maybe you’d expect him to prattle on about the glory of God, and the need to save lost souls. You’d be partially right. He would be talking about the need to save lost souls. But he’d point out that they’d been wrong about who those lost souls were, and that’s also very much the reason he’s listening so attentively to you. Because he is not out to recruit more people to worship God, he’s set out to correct the way the worship is conducted, and steer those already Christian right. That’s also why he’s listening, hearing everybody out. He wants to know how God has affected their lives, whether they're of faith or not.

He gets a lot of questions he takes up with Tom in the car ride home. Do people who've never heard of God go to Heaven? What's God’s stance on circumcision? Abortion? Divorce? Noah already have his own answers for these questions, even if he hasn’t prayed about it. He confesses to Tom that some of these questions he answers with total certainty despite not knowing what God really wants. “If one answer will cause suffering and the other won't, I'll go with the second answer. Same if one answer will bereave a person of its free will. If we're _forced_ into obeying God, our faith, trust, and likeliness to want to be Godly in the future will diminish, I think.”

“Can you give me any examples?”

“Circumcision. First off, it was demanded of from the Abrahamites. Later on it was revoked by Jesus. And you know it’s been called a cruel and inhuman practice by his apostles. We do it here in America because the puritans wanted to stop us from from experiencing sexual pleasure, and thereby keep from wanking and having recreational sex outside of marriage. Obviously, their PR was successful, and now we do it habitually. The bible’s pretty clear about what God wants from us Christians, calling anyone practising circumcision ‘mutilators’. Yet most people think it's a thing good Christians should do. But it’s not. It’s a practise the jews, and those who deny Jesus do. I tell those who ask this, and tell them it’s something a man should be allowed to decide for himself, after he turns 18, unless there’s a medical reason to do it sooner. One guy argued that it’s done to keep clean. I told them that one could just, you know, _wash_ , instead of cutting things that got dirty off,” Noah says with a snigger.

Tom feels another stone of guilt added to his burden. Noah’s circumcised just like he is. They’d been pressured to it both by Grace’s and his parents, the hospital staff, and their priest. 

“I don’t blame you,” Noah says, sounding amused, as if he’d read Tom’s mind. “I just think it should be stopped. And if people think I’ve had visions about it, I’m not going to stop them from thinking so, if it’s going to prevent their future children from being mutilated without a choice in the matter.”

Noah often uses the fact that some seem to regard him as a prophet to his advantage to get his own views across. But he doesn’t do so to gain personal favours, so Tom doesn’t reprimand it. 

“It’s not like I'm telling them I'm a prophet, dad. There’s nothing that makes me holier than everyone else. All I've told them is that God answers my prayers once in awhile. If they’re stupid enough to believe that that makes me a prophet, then that's their problem. It’s not like I'm the only one God answers,” Noah complains before flitting to another subject. All Tom can do is side eye him and wonder if Noah might be a little delusional after all, or if he's just living too far into his own head to understand that God rarely answers anyone, or atheists wouldn't be so common in other places. 

Tom worries about him. Noah sleeps until 2 pm on Saturday. He’s unusually quiet all day. Tom takes him to the range and lets him shoot as much as he wants. When they’re about to leave, a man Tom recognise from church stops them in the common room to ask Noah if something the man's daughter had heard in school is true. When Noah launches into an explanation of his ideas and revelation of God's will, Tom doesn’t recognise him. He barely recognise his speech pattern. The charisma he'd shown in church is back. He speaks clear and calm, pauses in all the right places, seeks eye contact and gestures to underline his points, but not enough to seem exaggerated. He draws a crowd, and includes every new listener without losing flow or pause. 

_Who are you, and what have you done to my son?_ Tom thinks, not for the first time.

After holding his impromptu speech and answered questions, they finally leave. The rain had finally stopped during the night, so they stop by the car to smoke a cigarette. Another man approaches them. He asks to speak with Noah in private. Noah gives Tom a little nod. Not deeming the man a threat, Tom goes to stand some way away from the car, pretending to be out of earshot. 

The man has lost his best friend in a car accident and confesses that he’s struggling with a drinking since then. He wants to know what he should do. Noah listens, intent, serious, and sympathetic. When he answers the man he’s very compassionate and understanding, but also straightforward, bordering on harsh in his advice, not allowing the man to make excuses for himself if he really wants to stop drinking. The man thanks him profusely before going on his way. 

Tom gets it now, all the things Noah’s been telling him about his week, and people confiding in, and listening to him. He puts on a mask, mantling the burden of a leader not just in ambition, but in spirit. 

Back in the car Noah makes a frustrated noise and oozes into an annoyed teenaged puddle in his seat. “For God's sake! One day is all I ask for. One lousy day of the week, to just slack off. Why can't they leave me the fuck alone? I know, I _know_ , language, but fuck them! I’m barely _eighteen_. What do _I_ know about fighting alcoholism? I don't know anyone with an addiction problem, as far as I know.”

“You gave sound advice,” Tom points out.

“ _Duh_. It’s called common sense. First you’ve got to admit that you have a problem to fix it. Then there’s the basic - if you really want to succeed at something that involves self-control, you will. If you don’t want to, because it’s hard, you’ll fail. I mean, _yes_ , temperance is a challenge. That’s the point.”

“Maybe you should have recommended him to seek out a therapist or a psychologist for help.”

Noah rolls his eyes and sits up straight. “Dad. He’s not an insane lunatic, or demented or something. He’s just a regular guy having trouble coping with the loss of a loved one,” he says chastising.

Tom purses his lips and is quiet for a beat, thinking of the anti-depressants he’d found in Grace’s drawer. The view Noah just expressed on therapy is the most common within the congregation. That if you needed help from a professional to regulate your mental health, you must obviously be mad, or seriously twisted in the head somehow. Mental illness was stigmatised. People could understand mourning the loss of a loved one, of course, but... “Noah…” Tom says hesitantly. “In every team I’ve played in, we’ve had some form of psychologist or therapist tied to the team, as well as physical therapists and medical staff…”

Noah turns his head and upper body towards Tom, raising his eyebrows slightly in a show of interest. 

Tom goes on. “Us hockey players, we’re just regular guys too. We’re not insane―“

Noah chuckles, cutting him off. “Anyone who’d seen your training schedule would beg to differ,” he jokes. Tom gives him a stern look and Noah holds up his hands in surrender, grinning. “Alright, alright. I’m sorry, go on.”

“You hit the nail, though. We were constantly pushing ourselves and our bodies to the limits, were kept from our families for prolonged periods of time, and were treated as public property to be spoken of as anyone pleased, as you yourself are experiencing in school. All this accumulates and puts a strain on emotions. The pressure, to always have to win, the heavy critique when we didn’t... A person can only take so much before it gets to you. To stay on top, the team provided therapists for us to talk to, to help us through rough spots. Like you’d talk to a priest.”

“Did you ever need the help of a therapist?”

Tom raises a hand from the steering wheel and bites his thumbnail unconsciously, keeping his eyes on the road. “I suppose I _needed_ one,” he admits reluctantly. “My leg’s been damaged for a lot longer than I’ve let on. They recognised that I struggled to deal with the fact that my life― I mean my career, would soon be over, and they offered me to talk with someone several times. I always said no.”

“Because you thought you could deal with it yourself?” Noah asks.

Tom shakes his head. “If it would have gotten out that I’d been treated by a psychologist, you, my family, would have lost respect and credibility within the congregation. So I pretended to be in better shape than I was and declined.”

“But couldn’t you have talked to one of our priests?”

Tom removes the hand from his mouth to shift. He considers Noah’s question. His lips quirk in amusement on their own behalf. He snorts. “No.”

“But―“

“No. There’s never been a single priest here that I would trust with my thoughts and feelings. There’s no point in talking to someone for support if you don’t intend to be truthful. I hate lying. No clergy here has ever made me feel anything other than inadequate. To tell them what goes on beneath the surface? It would just be degrading myself.”

Noah covers his mouth with his hand, eyes wide and shocked as if Tom has just spit him in the face or razed his house of cards with no prior warning. 

For a long time they sit in silence. Then Noah removes his hand from his mouth. “Never ever? Not a single one of them? Not even when you were a child?” 

“No. And I can explain why. A therapist is there to help you. Whatever you tell them, they’re obliged to keep it secret and they will not judge you for it. Their job is to help you solve the problem, or rather to give you the tools to help _you_ solve your problems. The priests, they’ve spent every Sunday listing all your sins for you and declared their contempt to those who commits those sins or bear those weaknesses. You know they’ll judge you from the start. That won’t help you feel better, now will it?” Tom shakes his head, answering his own question. “I suspect I’m not the only one who feels that way, or you wouldn’t have people seeking you out to talk.”

“I guess…” Noah admits. “I just never suspected _you_ felt that way.”

“Mh. But I do. The backside of entrusting a psychologist or therapist is that they may not hold the same understanding of how important your relationship to God really is to you, and might breeze over that as a minor issue.”

“Issue…? Dad, you do believe in God, don’t you?” Noah asks, looking severely distressed.

Tom gives him a reassuring smile. “I do. I’m just not always,” _...never been…_ “convinced that he is pleased with me.”

“Oh.” Noah relaxes again. “ _That’s_ why you said the other day that you were not on speaking terms, and it had to do with you cheating on mom. I get it,” he says and relaxes further, looking a bit pleased, as if he’d uncovered the solution for something that’s been bothering him. “The whole sins versus forgiveness thing,” he adds with a dismissive gesture. He looks back at Tom. “You can talk about it with me, if you want. I promise I won’t give you shit for it.”

Tom chuckles. “No, I don’t want to talk about it. But you’re right. I do doubt God will forgive me my sins. But to get back on topic, I think you might be well off reading up on psychology. I believe the things you learned about it in school is inadequate and sketchy at best. It’s possible that a lot of people around here might benefit from talking to a therapist of some kind, if we weren’t so prejudiced against it.”

“Okay. Can we stop by the library?”

“Of course.”

“Good. You know what gets me the most about everything that's happened this week, dad?”

Tom shakes his head. 

“Every day people have told me stuff that has turned things I thought I knew on its head. And I keep having to adjust how I see the world several times a day.” Noah sighs. “It feels kinda humiliating, you know? To be reminded of how stupid I've been, and continue to be. Like, I dunno. Before, when someone told me something that didn’t match up with how I saw the world, I might have argued about them being wrong. Even when the subject is how people _felt_ about things, like, emotionally, not just opinions. But God wants me to listen, so I do.”

Tom doesn’t know how to answer that and remains quiet.

Not that Noah needs him to say something. He goes on. “And people keeps asking me for advice on things I know nothing about, but if I tell them I don’t know they get frigging distressed about it, so I have to bullshit an answer like I did to that guy on the parking lot, or I lose all credibility. It’s exhausting. I mean, I'm not lying to them. But you know. I’m still bullshitting my way through each day, mixing common sense, the scripture, and advice I have gotten myself, trying to be vague about it and hoping for the best.”

“If you are going to give advice, then that's not a bad way to go about doing it,” Tom answers. 

“I just don’t get it. It’s been one week since I said my bit in church and it’s just snowballed out of proportions. How'd it get so big?”

“In the wake of the Croatoan, people are desperate for salvation, and you offer a solution.”

“Yeah, because I'm fu― friggin stupid, that's why,” Noah mutters. 

Noah borrows a couple of books on psychology on the way home and spends the evening reading. 

Sometimes it felt like Noah listened to him as if _he_ was an oracle.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Monty Python's Life of Brian](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fs0uXGImb2w)
> 
> Alright. So Noah's got a pretty epic plot arc all to himself, but we're not getting into it, except for where his life touches Tom's, since it will go on for years and years after he's left the nest. Just giving you fair warning, since the next chapter may clue you into his arc and perhaps make you curious. But the journey Noah's started in on affects Tom a lot during the upcoming months.


	35. Neda Bath Kol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Noah makes a new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, sorry about the confusion with the pronouns. It will continue. So just suck it up. 
> 
> Second of all, this is part of Noah's arc. I'm going to be spoilery and say that no. He's not a new Messiah. Just to clear it out of the way. His story isn't quite as big as it may seem here. Apart from that, these details won't make a huge difference in Tom's life, but since he's affected by this for at least a couple of months more, you'll see glimpses of Noah's story every time it brushes Tom's life. We'll leave it behind us in the future.
> 
> Also, I'm taking liberties with lore, SPN and otherwise.

## December 2014

* * *

**December 7th - 10th**

John’s not in church on Sunday. David trails along with Noah from the moment he steps out of the car to the moment he gets back into it afterwards. It reminds Tom of the agents surrounding the president. And thinking about it, David has been there every day when Tom's picked Noah up from school. It’s a relief to know that someone has Noah’s back. 

Monday Tom asks Noah to drive when they head for the unfamiliar church to listen to a sermon. Sleep keeps eluding Tom. He deems himself an unsafe driver because of it. Noah is strangely quiet and drawn into himself both when Tom comes to pick him up and when they drive to the church. Tom worries. He asks if something happened in school, but Noah assures him it didn’t. After that Tom falls asleep against the car window.

There are about ten other people listening to the sermon and Tom finds the sermon uncommonly comforting. Not once does the pastor mention hellfire. He talks about God’s love, and leads them in a couple of prayers for the local people. Like prayers for ‘Joe’ to find a job soon, and for ‘Mary’ to birth her twins without complications. Tom finds it uplifting. When they’re done it's started to rain an icy cold drizzle. Tom opts to drive, revitalized by both previous nap and the sermon. 

Halfway home, in the middle of nowhere, they spot a lonely figure by the roadside. Tom slows down to pick her up. 

“Dad. What are you doing? He could be out to rob us!” Noah protests, visibly unsettled. 

“Or she could be catching pneumonia and despairing because nobody is stopping. It’s cold, wet, and dark. Helping her is the Christian thing to do, Noah.”

“It’s a he,” Noah corrects. “And I know, but…”

“Does your gut feeling tell you that she's out to hurt us? Mine is telling me we can trust her.”

“No. Mine’s not telling me anything, but…” Noah shuts up.

“Then that’s settled,” Tom says, ending the discussion. He pushes the button, opening a slit in Noah’s car window so they can speak with the woman. She’s standing unnaturally still, not hunched over or hugging herself as the ice cold rain bids for. The washed out jeans jacket hangs soaked off broad shoulders, short dark hair is slicked against skull and forehead, the classic black Adidas pants stick to legs. Tom stops beside her and leans over Noah to speak. “Hey! You need a ride, girl? We’re headed to Pine Glen.”

Noah sinks into his car seat going red in the face and staring at Tom as if he just said something mortifying, hissing “ _Dad_!” chastising from the corner of his lip.

“That is my destination too,” the woman answers, voice dark and soothing, barely an expression on her stubbled face. Tom gets the impulse to bow and thank her for gracing them with her presence. He doesn’t. It would be too absurd. There’s just something in his heart that feels full of awe at the sight at her.

“Well then. Get in before you catch pneumonia,” Tom says and gestures at the car door behind Noah with a jerk of his head.

The person moves to get in and Noah scowls at Tom. “ _Stop_ misgendering him!” he hisses angrily before the door opens and she― _he_ ―gets in. Because if Tom really looks, his eyes tells him it’s a he. 6 foot tall perhaps, broad shoulders, stubbled jaw, broad eyebrows, muscular chest, slim hips… there shouldn’t have been any doubt in the world about the gender of the man who gets in. But Tom’s mind keeps rejecting it, telling him it’s a female. Same thing with age. Should you ask Tom what age the ‘woman’ was, he’d answer she’s older than him―ancient even―yet the man getting in looks to be Noah’s age, according to his eyes. It’s confusing, so Tom puts it down to sleep deprivation.

Tom turns around and offers his hand. “Hi. My name is Tom,” he says with a welcoming smile. The woman― _man_ ―blinks peculiarly at his hand before mirroring his gesture. Tom grabs his hand and shakes it. 

When he lets go Noah offers his hand in greeting. “I’m Noah. Sorry about my dad calling you a girl. He’s weird sometimes. What’s your name?”

This time the stranger doesn’t hesitate to shake the hand offered, almost as if he wasn’t sure what to do with the offered hand the first time. “I am pleased to meet you both. I am Neda Bath Kol,” he answers monotonously. 

“You don’t look Middle Eastern,” Noah says, looking puzzled.

“You don’t look Chinese,” Neda counters. Noah frowns and Tom bursts out laughing. 

Noah turns around and sits back in his seat. “What’s so funny?”

Yes, so Noah is a smart kid, but some jokes passed him right by. “If she isn’t Middle Eastern there’s no reason she should look like she is. Just like there’s no reason for you to look Chinese,” Tom explains, mouth twitching in mirth as he starts driving again. 

“Oh. _He_ , dad,” Noah corrects, then turns in his seat to address Neda. “I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Neither of you have offended me, I can assure you,” Neda replies. 

“Christ! You’re soaked through! You’re gonna get sick like that. Here,” Noah says, handing Neda the roll of kitchen paper always tucked between the front seats. “Use this to dry yourself off.” Then Noah unbuckles his seat belt. Tom is about to reprimand him until he gets why, as Noah begins to strip himself out of his jacket and college sweater. When he's shed those and is sitting just in his tee he buckles the seat belt again and turns back to Neda. “Here. Put these on. You can’t keep wearing wet clothes.”

Neda strips out of the jeans jacket and T-shirt she's wearing, dries off as good as she can and clothes herself in Noah’s clothes. Tom thinks she must be horribly frozen since she's not even shivering or chattering her teeth. They picked her up in the last minute or she would have frozen to death. 

_He,Tommy. Neda is a HE. Why is that so hard to remember???_

Neda’s wearing a tiny pleased smile when he’s changed. 

“And put your seatbelt on. Safety comes first,” Noah adds when Neda makes no move to buckle up. 

Neda obliges with some odd scrutiny of the belts Tom and Noah are wearing before grabbing his belt and buckling up. “This is a strange means of transportation,” he says. 

“I know,” Tom agrees. “But my car is at the mechanics, that's why we use the SUV,” he says, meeting Neda’s eyes in the rear view mirror. 

Neda blinks curiously at him, then nods solemnly after a beat. 

“So what were you doing in the middle of nowhere, Neda?” Tom asks, trying to get a conversation going. 

“I witnessed the assassination attempt on Noah in the house of learning today. It was unanticipated. It cannot be allowed to happen again,” Neda answers.

“The _**what**_?” Tom says, head snapping towards Noah and pulse jumping with fear. “ _You_ said nothing had happened in school today!”

“Oh my God! A guy pulled a knife on me, but David disarmed him. It’s no big deal,” Noah protests, pushing himself back in his seat, holding up his hands in defense. 

“You’re being untruthful. The infidel tried to stab you several times. He wounded you. It was a blessing that the first disciple was there to thwart the assassination attempt. I bore witness to the event,” Neda declares. 

“You’re _hurt???_ ”

“Jesus! Calm down! It's just a scratch. I didn’t tell you because I didn't want you to freak out, alright?”

Tom turns onto the side of the road and parks. “No, it’s not alright. When something like that happens I want you to tell me.”

“I don’t want you to worry, okay?” Noah says defensively. 

“He fears you would try to thwart him, and force him to discontinue his mission,” Neda informs Tom. “You will not. You will calm yourself down and allow him to finish what he started. He will anyway, whether you choose to support him or not. But your unwavering support is the preferred option.”

“Neda, _shut up_ ,” Noah says, stressed out, looking at Tom.

“You have begged for me to speak for months. Now you ask for silence. I do not understand,” Neda replies, frowning in confusion. 

Both Tom and Noah are too intent on their own conflict to pay much attention to their odd passenger. “Noah, I worry about you, whether you tell me these things or not. It comes with being a parent. I _love you_ , therefore I worry. But you can bet I'll worry even more if I have to hear these things from others,” Tom says as calmly as he can with his pulse racing and his mind flashing worst case scenarios. 

“Sorry, dad.”

“What happened, son? And why didn't the school or police call me?”

“This guy cornered me on the school yard, out of sight. He said that I was doing the Devil’s bidding―“

“He is wrong,” Neda cuts in, but remains ignored. 

“―and he said the only reason I defend sodomites and feeble minded is because I am one myself. I couldn't reason with him. He said my kind deserves to die, everyone of us, and that he was going to do God a favour. Then he pulled a knife and attacked me. Luckily David came around the corner just then and he is badass. I asked David not to tell anyone. I’m afraid it’ll just lead to more violence if people find out.”

“You were hurt?”

“Just a scratch, really. He barely grazed me,” Noah says and pulls up his t-shirt. It _is_ just a scratch. A red stripe on the belly no deeper than if a thorn or a cat had scratched him. It does explain why he'd changed shirt and jacket when they got home from school. The knife had reached the skin, and as such must have gone through all the layers of cloth between.

“Who did it?”

“Dad.”

“ _Noah_.”

“Fine. Rodrick Mortensen.”

“The bigoted horrid piece of utter _shit_! May God strike him down and let him burn in Hell for this,” Tom curses with an angry grimace as he touches the mark on Noah’s belly tenderly.

Noah chokes on spittle, and lets out a surprised laugh at the unfamiliar hateful vehemence coming from his father’s mouth.

“Very good. Yes. That is acceptable,” Neda says and nods with a pleased smile on her face. She snaps her fingers. “It is done,” she declares. “Now can you proceed the journey to the Hearth? There’s an inebriated driver three minutes behind us. He will swerve right into this vehicle if we remain in place. It would be… unfortunate.”

Tom has to crane his neck to look at their passenger bemusedly. She― _he_ ―seems to have worked out how the whole smiling things work by now, and offers him a good natured smile, like they weren’t just discussing a murder attempt on his son. Neda does an encouraging ‘go on’ gesture with her _his_ hands. Neda’s right though. This stretch of road is badly lit, the rain had picked up and they haven’t set up a warning triangle behind them. Tom turns to Noah. “We’re not done talking about this, you hear?”

“Yes, dad,” Noah replies sullenly.

Tom starts the car and drives onward.

“Do not fear for the son’s life. I shall protect him,” Neda proclaims from the back.

Tom couldn’t say why, but it calms him to know that.

“Neda, how come you saw it? You go to my school? I thought no one was around,” Noah queries, turning back to look at Neda.

“I was present. I am always by your side.”

“ _Ooo_ kay. I don’t think I’ve seen you before. You mean we have classes together? You sit in the back, or something?”

“We have spoken several times.”

“Shit. I’m sorry. No offense, but I don’t remember you. There’s just so many to keep track of in high school you know?”

“None taken. I’m customarily tasked with observing. Human interaction is new to me,” Neda says.

Tom and Noah both laughs. Neda grins, as if it’s funny that they couldn’t remain diplomatic enough not to laugh at her. But then again, if she usually sits in the back and just watches people, never getting to interact with them, getting people to laugh may be a grand prize even if it’s on your expense.

“Sorry, Neda. We kinda picked up on that. You seem like a cool guy. Guess you don’t have many friends, huh?” Noah say with an apologetic smile. “That’s alright. You can hang with me and I’ll introduce you to a couple of good peeps. You’ll be alright.”

Neda nods. “Appreciated.”

“Neda, we haven’t had dinner yet. There’s a Sonic drive in coming up ahead. Are you hungry? My treat,” Tom says.

“I have not had sustenance. Your offer is accepted. Thank you.”

Neda is a strange kid, but sh- _he_ loosens up more and more during the ride. Body relaxing, gestures getting less robotic and facial expressions making more sense the longer she’s keeping up conversation with the two of them. Tom has the odd thought that it’s good that she learns human behaviour so nobody will catch on. Directly after that thought he’s confused about thinking it. Catch onto _what_? He doesn’t know. All he knows is that his heart tells him Neda is good and trustworthy. He also feels slightly awed by _his_ presence, which is absurd. He couldn’t tell why a young slightly scruffy man gives him that feeling, anymore than he could tell why some people made him feel fear. But he’s always been one to trust his gut feeling and chalks down the rest to lack of sleep.

When they reach Pine Glen Tom meets Neda’s eyes in the rear view mirror. “Where do you live, Neda? Where do you want me to drop you off?”

“My Father’s house is no longer welcoming place for me and my siblings. You can drop me off at the school. I need to be there tomorrow.”

“Woah. Time the fuck out,” Noah says and makes a time out gesture with his hands. “You mean to tell us you’re not allowed to come home, and plan to spend the night in school?” he asks and turns to stare disbelievingly at Neda. Neda nods. “Yeah, no fucking way,” Noah answers.

“ _Language_ ,” Tom reminds.

Noah makes a dismissive gesture at Tom without taking his eyes off their passenger. “Neda, you’re welcome to spend the night at our place. We’ve got room to spare. And I bet you could use a hot shower after standing outside getting soaked in this weather.” Noah turns his head to look at Tom. “That’s okay, right, dad?”

“Of course.”

And so their house comes to house another wayward teen for a night. They provide Neda with clothes from Noah and Tom’s wardrobe that they insist he keep. Tom throws his wet clothes in the washing machine so they’ll be done when it’s time for school tomorrow. Neda watches a movie with Grace and Noah in the living room, talking. Grace makes them tea and grilled cheese before they go to bed. Tom sleeps like a dead. He dreams of John. A good dream that leaves him filled with longing when he wakes up. He packs Neda’s clothes―both new and old―in a backpack, and puts some money in the inner pouch of it, in case the boy needs it. On impulse he also packs a pocket knife he used to use for camping, because you never know. Then he puts in a couple of candy bars and a bottle of water.

Neda beams gratefully as he explains what he’s gifted her― _him_ with. (Tom’s mind still refuses to see the boy as anything other than a woman of indeterminable age. If Tom were to describe her, he’s say she was ebony skinned, beautiful, frightening and awe striking, and older than him. Not a teenage boy with tanned skin, darkish hair, hazel eyes and stubble. The only thing that matches up between his inner image and what his eyes sees, is her height.)

He drops the pair off at school and goes directly to the range to shoot.

When he picks Noah up in the afternoon Neda is in the group that surrounds Noah, but disappears the moment Noah opens the car door to get in. “Dad! Guess what? Rodrick is _dead_!” Noah says as soon as he’s in. “He got struck by lighting yesterday. So David couldn’t keep his mouth shut about the attack, and now people have gotten into their minds that God is watching over me. It’s fucking freaky. And I can’t believe I didn’t remember Neda. He’s in _every single one_ of my classes. How, _how_ could I have missed that? And, like, everyone can swear they’ve seen him before, but no one can remember talking to him. Can you wrap your head around how lonely that must have been? And…” Noah babbles on. Tom barely gets a word out except for encouraging hums, overwhelmed by today’s enthusiasm.

They visit a strange sermon that night. One that requires dancing and yelling ‘Hallelujah!’ and all kinds of strange behaviour that has some of the participants eyes rolling into the back of their skull in ecstasy. A woman faints. It’s all very… well…. It’s a lot. And it’s definitely _not_ Tom and Noah’s form of worship. The two of them are laughing to the point of tears on the way home. Tom wants to call and tell John about it. Or Sam. Mostly John. God, but Tom misses him so badly. It’s like losing a limb. It gets worse with each day that passes without getting to see him. Six days and counting since that weird day on the range. Tom berates himself for missing him, for messing up and letting himself be seen kissing Cal in public, for kissing Cal in the first place, for flirting so much with John, for having an affair with Justin for… the list goes on and on, listing every mistake ever made. These little moments with Noah are life savers that dulls the depression and allows time to pass normally for awhile, instead of dragging out in infinity.

Tom dreams of Noah dying that night. Dream after dream wakes him up by seeing Noah getting stabbed/shot/beaten to death. He fears falling asleep. Just because life’s a bitch he can’t keep his eyes open and gets sucked into restless slumber over and over. In every dream Tom can’t get to Noah in time to save him. He’s forced to helplessly watch it happen. The hours of the night ticks by, exhausting him more and more with each nightmare. Suddenly in his dream an ebony woman appears crossing her arms and pinning him with a stern gaze from eyes that are made of light. “Did I not tell you not to worry? This shall not come to pass. I’m guarding your son now,” she scolds, blocking the way between Tom and the angry mob tearing at his son.

“Neda?” Tom says but she’s gone, and so is Noah and the mob. Instead he’s sitting on the bow of a boat, naked legs dangling, feeling cold water splash his toes and sun warm his skin. He’s wearing a lifejacket and shorts. The boat is moving slowly within an archipelago, the scent of the sea filling his nostrils, the sound of gulls and the boat engine in his ears. He’s holding an empty beer bottle in his hands.

“Oy, Tommy! Want another one?”

He turns to look behind him at the call of the familiar voice. John is standing up, steering the boat, and holds up a full beer bottle with his eyebrows raised in question and a dazzling smile that just fills Tom with pure joy. Gone are the dark circles under his eyes and the lines of worry. He’s tanned. His dark, curly hair is bleached by sun and salt water, slightly longer than the last time Tom saw him, ruffled by the breeze and held in place by the sunglasses pushed onto his head. Tom can’t stop himself from returning the smile. 

John takes it as a ‘yes’ and throws the bottle in a easy high bow that Tom almost fails to catch, dropping his empty bottle into the water while saving the full one. John laughs at him and fishes the empty bottle out of the water, using a hand net, as they go by the spot where it’s bobbing in the water. “Told you this thing would come in handy, fishing or not,” he says with amusement.

“That, you did,” Tom agrees and opens the beer bottle with the opener on his key chain. He started wearing them on a chain like Justin used to, after dropping his keys in the water twice. He added a little floating device to it too just to be safe. He’s fallen into the water more times than he can count, and his hands seemed unable to hold onto anything safely around water, unless they were in a crisis. He thinks his clumsiness is more due to the thrill of hearing John’s laugh than anything else.

Another boat passes them and Tom and John raises their hands in greeting, getting a wave back. A white flag with a blue cross flapping lazily in the breeze behind the boat. They’re in Scandinavia somewhere. Tom’s not sure where exactly. Today he’s seen a Swedish flag, a Danish flag, and two Finnish flags counting this one. He can’t believe how foolish they’d been. Who the hell decides to take a trip to Europe, going through Bermuda, with a small boat like this? Experienced seamen perhaps? And Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dumber, aka John and Tommy. He’s been so sure they were going to die when they got caught in that storm in the middle of the North Atlantic. They had both prayed. Tom’s not sure if he’s ever prayed so heartfelt. But the only thing he had to say to God was ‘Thank you’. He’d been ready to die, but not like before. He hadn’t wished for it. He’d wished he continue on this journey with John until he was old and grey and his grandkids had gotten grandkids (though he didn’t have any grandkids yet that he knew about). But he was _at peace_ about dying, certain that Heaven was waiting for him, and if it didn’t? At least he’d gotten to be truly happy before he died.

A couple of cormorants watches them suspiciously as they pass by the tiny stone island they’re sitting on. Who would have thought he’d find peace of mind at sea? He takes a swig of the cold beer and turns to watch John. John’s lips are set in a resting smile but breaks into a much wider one when he sees Tom looking. “What do you say? Drop anchor by that island and have some lunch?” he asks and points at another small island.

“Sounds good to me,” Tom agrees and gets to his feet. Lord knows it hadn’t been all butterflies and roses. The two of them could argue to whip up a storm (maybe they had, out there on the North Atlantic?) because that beautiful bastard was as stubborn as he was handsome, and long days at sea cooped up only the two of them, 24/7, took a toll. But they always resolved the conflict. Always.

Tom goes to put his beer in a holder beside John and quickly shimmies back to the bow to fix the rope. This is his job - taking the leap from the boat to dry land, pulling them in, while John dropped the anchor and steered the boat. By now they were adept at all things that came with boating, the both of them. But John took to the sea as if he was born for it. Tom had needed some adjusting, hence the many impromptu dips in the blue. God bless water resistant cell phones. No, really. God bless them.

His cell phone wakes Tom up at noon, completely disoriented. The last dream he had felt so real that he had forgotten he was dreaming. It takes a while to get why he isn’t on a boat with John in a Scandinavian archipelago. The scent of seawater and sunkissed skin lingers freshly in his nostrils. He grabs his phone to see he’s got a text. It’s Noah telling him he won’t need a ride home today. On top of that, there’s no sermon scheduled to be visited today. Tom tries to fall asleep again to go back to the dream, but without success.

He skips brunch and instead goes to the range in a vain hope that John will show up. But no. Nobody has seen him since last Wednesday. He thinks about hiring a bodyguard for Noah. He could afford it. He is torn. Most likely, it would piss Noah off. He’s trying to come closer to people, and hear their take on things. He wants the outcasts and those in need of help to approach. He’s trying to turn their congregation to a welcoming place where everyone can find solace. If he’s walking around with a big, forbidding, armed man (or ten. Preferably ten) with cold eyes, he’d set himself apart from everybody. He is something of a local celebrity now, with everything fame entails. But getting bodyguards at this stage might hinder his mission. No shy, fearful, abused/queer kid would approach him. Maybe he should discuss this with Grace. He wonders why he hasn’t spoken to her about it yet. Does she even know what happened? 

He worries that he’s a bad parent if he doesn’t do everything in his power to keep his son safe, even if it stops Noah from following his calling. From God. God answers Noah’s prayers and Rodrick was struck by lightning the same day as the attack. The rain came when Noah held his speech. Tom believes Noah may actually have had his prayers answered. One coincidence, sure, but two? Of course Tom has the gnawing doubt worming in his belly. How could he not? The things Noah’s saying, if they’re true… Tom doesn’t dare to hope.

He worries that he’s a bad parent if he hires bodyguards. He comes to the conclusion that he’s a bad parent whatever he chooses, and vows to ask Noah’s opinion. He’s a man grown and has the right to have a saying in how it should be handled.

He gets a call from the mechanics, telling him his car is ready. It’s begun to snow when he leaves the range. He goes home, gets the winter tires from the garage, calls a cab, and goes to pick up his car. He has them change tires while he’s there. Snowflakes are falling, huge and beautiful, covering the ground and filling Tom with an aching longing for putting on his skates. How bad could it be? Just go down to the rink and skate leisurely for a bit. Maybe see if the juniors or beginners are training and give them some pointers. Maybe act as a co-trainer for a team. Maybe join one of those easy level bush league teams… 

The longer he thinks about putting his skates back on, the more painful does the longing get - another lost limb making itself felt. He tries thinking of something to distract him from that longing, and remembers that Justin will be home soon. That young man is a distraction with a capital D. Or could be. Tom wonders how Juss will react, being told John knows about them. It makes Tom’s anxiety levels shoot through the roof. The drive home is torture. His limbs keeps going numb and pinprickly from stress, he feels dizzy. He can’t get enough oxygen down no matter how deeply and calmly he tries to breathe. His heart beats in uneven patterns, racing, slowing down, racing again. He feels over-heated and cold and clammy at the same time. He hopes he won’t run into anyone before he gets home and can hide in the den. He doesn’t want to see anyone, or for anyone to see _him_ like this.

He nearly freaks out and turns his car around to go hide someplace when he spots several cars parked outside his home. It takes all self control he has to bypass them and park in the garage. Going inside his hopes of not seeing anyone is thoroughly dashed. There must be at least thirty people crammed in the living room and he barely recognises any of them. They’re sitting or standing where they can fit, the floor included. Maybe five adults, the rest youths, all focused on Noah, who’s standing in front of the TV, talking. Tom loiters in the doorway, wondering how he can get past them all without notice. He needs to get to the kitchen to take some painkillers, then to the den. 

There are two faces not focused on Noah. David, facing the crowd, perched on the living room table that’s been pushed out of the way behind Noah. For all David knows how to talk the talk and walk the walk of the rich kids, the way he scans the crowd is definitely a trait developed in the rougher parts of town where he’s from. He doesn’t look intimidating, just alert. He smiles and nods when he spots Tom. On the other side of the room, behind the crowd, Neda’s standing. He too is keeping an eye on the people rather than Noah. Sh- _he_ turns his head to look directly at Tom, smirks and throws him a wink, then goes back to vigilance. Tom wonders why it’s so damned hard to see a 6 foot tall, broad shouldered man as anything but a woman, or why he gets an impulse to bow before her. Noah keeps chastising him for misgendering Neda, and yet he keeps doing it unless he consciously reminds himself not to. Not that Neda’s ever seemed to be bothered in the least.

Tom slinks around the crowd and into the kitchen. He takes three painkillers and downs them with a full bottle of water. He stays in the kitchen trying to get his breathing under some semblance of control. He doesn’t want to embarrass Noah by having a fully fledged panic attack in front of his guests. At least he doesn’t have to worry about body guards. It’s clear that Noah has them already.

It takes about fifteen minutes for the painkillers to kick in. Tom braves the living room to get to the den, but stops to listen to Noah for a bit. He really should get down to the den before the pills take him from calmed to high, but again, the young man talking and answering questions, holding the group interested, is not his son. Noah’s transformation is as magical as his words are hope inducing. It doesn’t take long for Tom to get swept up in the description of the Faith that Noah paints―a place where Tom can fit in too. He goes to stand in the back of the room, beside Neda, needing to ‘hide’ beside something that’s familiar to him and has always been there since he first drew breath on this earth. The moment he thinks that, he knows he’s high. Neda throws him an amused look and tuts quietly.

_Don’t judge me, woman. You didn’t take away my anxiety, so I had to rid myself of it somehow,_ he thinks irritably.

Neda makes a facial shrug in agreement, making Tom wonder if he said it aloud. But Neda’s back to watching the room, side stepping a bit closer to him. Tom relaxes, feeling protected. It’s superficial, like holding someone’s hand. It won’t stop anyone from seeing him, or talking to him, but it still _feels_ safer. When things are starting to wrap up, and Noah’s just answering questions, Tom slinks down to the den. He reads Noah’s speech again, stroking the last paragraphs with reverent fingers. He doesn’t believe it. Not yet. He _wants_ to. Lord knows, he wants it to be true. He puts it away and lies down on the couch. He fails to fall asleep, but manages not to think of anything, which is just as good.

Sometime later Noah comes down into the den. “ _Phew_. They’re all gone now. Man, this is exhausting,” he says.

Tom moves his legs so he can sit and Noah flops down beside him. “You’re a great speaker though.”

“You heard me?” Noah says, perking up. “I saw you go to the kitchen, but I didn’t notice you after that.”

“I hid behind Neda. I’m tired. Didn’t want to draw attention to myself.”

“Heh. Good choice. Would you believe if I said, neither did I?”

Tom laughs. “I would. The limelight takes its toll.”

“Yeah. And Percy Maiter that was here, he’s like, your biggest fan ever. I mean, has-a-shrine-dedicated-to-you-and-kisses-your-picture-goodnight-big fan.”

“Ouch.”

“No shit. He’s super supportive, an’ all, but that’s because I’m your son. But hey, beggars can’t be choosers,” Noah says with a tired smile and sinks down further in the couch.

“Doesn’t he get that I’m retired?”

“So is Jesus. Doesn’t stop people from worshipping him,” Noah jokes. They both snigger.

“You got a point. Is Neda staying over? Did she resolve the thing with her dad? I thought she was going to stay here until we’d figured out a solution.”

“ _He_. Dammit!” Noah scolds, then sighs. “Honestly dad, I don’t know,” he says and runs a hand through his hair. “I swear, he’s such an oddball. I asked him yesterday. He answered,” Noah does an impersonation of Neda’s monotonous voice, “‘That will not be necessary. You helped me in need, protected me, fed me, clothed me, sheltered me, washed me, and offered me rest by your hearth. The Lord is pleased.’” Noah snorts in bemusement and shakes his head. “I answered―“

“It’s the Christian thing to do,” Tom finishes the sentence along with Noah.

“―It’s the Christian thing to do.” They share a smile and a look. “Although I wouldn’t say offering a guy to take a shower and hand him a towel is the same thing as washing him, but, you know, oddball,” Noah adds with amusement. “I like him though. And he keeps playing with the pocket knife you gave him. It made him real friggin happy. I’m so glad we picked him up despite me being a coward in the wake of the attack…”

“So am I. Do you want a drink?” Tom asks.

“Oh boy, _do_ I? You offering, or just testing me?”

Tom chuckles and gets to his feet, ruffling Noah’s hair. “Offering. I’m not that big of an asshole. What do you want?”

“Can I have something fancy? I haven’t tried enough alcohol to know what’s supposed to be good.”

“Expensive shit coming right up,” Tom says, grinning. Noah’s doing the work of a man, and turns eighteen in less than a month. He can handle a drink or two on a school night, Tom reasons. Still, he pours them a moderate amount of fine cognac, showing Noah the bottle so he knows what he’s drinking. He comes back and hands Noah his tumbler, puts down his own on the table, then goes to fetch an ashtray and his cigarettes. Grace never comes down here and she doesn’t seem to care about the smell of smoke anyway. It’s the health issue that bothers her. The pills he took earlier makes him far less worried about dos and don’ts. When he puts the ashtray and cigarettes down between them on the table, Noah looks grateful enough to cry.

“I can’t express enough how much I love you right now,” Noah says as Tom fishes his lighter out of the packet along with two cigarettes, handing Noah one of them along with the lighter as he sits down.

“What? For leading you into temptation?” Tom chuckles and sits down. “Rough day?”

“No,” Noah answers around the cigarette while trying to light it. “Not really. It’s just…” He gets the cigarette burning, hands over the lighter, takes a deep breath of smoke and sinks down back in the couch with a tired but content sigh, tumbler in his other hand. “...people are idiots, dad. I mean, really, honest to God, _dumb_. I’m gonna turn into a misanthrope before I turn nineteen if this goes on. And it’s gonna go on, because no one is gonna take over. If someone would, they’d done so already. And having to do all the pussyfooting around the diehard fogeys is driving me insane. It’s necessary to begin with, but you know that’s gonna blow up sooner or later and we will all get in trouble. I figured I’d keep track of who’s open to change, and who’s a fogey, and adjust what I say. But. I can’t control who everyone else is talking to. I wonder how long it will take before Bonahue figures out I’m undermining him, and all hell will break loose?”

Tom clinks their glasses together and takes a sip. It’s good stuff, warming from within. “We’ll deal with it when it happens. Just don’t worry about mom and me. We’re firmly on your side,” Tom assures him and takes a drag of his own cigarette. 

“Thanks. I know. But thanks anyway. I worry about it, since I started this without warning you.” Noah experimentally takes a sip, smacks his lips, looking at the tumbler, makes an approving sturgeon face, then shudders. 

Tom sniggers at him. “Good?”

“Yeah. And deceptive. It’s so smooth and mild to begin with, then… it’s stronger than it seems.”

“It is. I was thinking about your attack earlier. How do you feel about bodyguards?”

“No. Just, no, dad. Please don’t. David and Neda is with me all the time in school now. I know they’re not trained or anything. But they don’t scare people away unless I’m being threatened. I found that shy girl again and went to talk to her. If I had bodyguards she’d have spooked for sure, okay?”

“Okay. Okay, son. But if it happens again, we need to talk about it. I’m scared for you. Did she tell you what’s up with her?”

Noah inhales more smoke before answering. “No. She doesn’t say much. But now she sticks around at least. Something’s wrong. That’s for sure. She was here tonight, by the way. Did you see her? She was sitting on the floor, almost by my feet.”

“No. I wasn’t looking at the people in the room.”

“Oh, you want to hear something funny?” Noah chuckles and shakes his head. “I was reported to the police today.”

“ _That’s_ funny?” Tom asks, worry flaring up all over again.

“Yeah. It’s hilarious. I was accused for murder and witchcraft. By Rodrick’s dad. He claimed I had murdered his son by invoking Satan. The case was closed as soon as the charges were made. He dragged the police officers with him to school, making it out to be some huge thing going down there. The he saw me and went ‘Arrest him! He murdered my son by witchcraft!’” Noah takes another sip of cognac and looks amused and content. “The police―the same officers who didn’t bother with Martin when they thought he was gay―were like, ‘Who? The guy who ended the drought and talks to God?’ Then David spoke up about the murder attempt, and Neda proclaimed that he had witnessed Rodrick’s attack on me. I was made to show my belly. I mean, it’s just a scratch. But the police took it very seriously. So did others. Apparently, both Rodrick and his dad had been heard making hateful and threatening statements about me prior to the attack. When the police started questioning where Rodrick had gotten the knife from, his dad wasn’t so keen on having it be a public spectacle anymore. He was hauled away for questioning. I asked them to just drop it. I mean, they guy has just lost his son for God’s sake. But conspiring to murder is a public indictment, so I didn’t have a say in the matter. And Officer Kubrick is very superstitious. He’s convinced God had his say in striking Rodrick down. It’s such a fucking― sorry. I just don’t get how the school can allow all this madness to go on.”

Tom shakes his head, not knowing what to say. It had been impossible to predict how big of a splash Noah would be making when he held his speech in church two Sundays ago. It certainly looked like God was rooting for him. “Maybe they can’t stop it. After all the suffering this year, people are desperate for something to happen. And you did.”

“I happened,” Noah states in self-deprecating humour. “Isn’t it funny how anyone can twist my non-violence agenda into equal devil-worship?”

“Don’t you know that’s how Satan does it? ‘Kill ‘em with kindness’,” Tom jokes.

Noah laughs. “Yeah. Lucifer might be onto something in that case,” he sniggers and takes another sip of the cognac. Tom can see him loosening up, and thinks offering him a drink was a good call. “I’m just beginning to think ‘sensible adult’ is an oxymoron.”

“Amen to that,” Tom says, sucking on his cigarette and identifying so hard with that statement. Being sensible is harder than it seemed as a kid. Responsibility and emotions doesn’t mix well.

“Can we watch a movie before I go to bed? I’d like to unscrew my head for a moment,” Noah asks. 

They do. What could be better to watch under the circumstances, than ‘Monty Python’s Life of Brian’?

* * *


	36. The Father and the Son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short little chapter. :) It was part of the huge one that I divided.

## December 2014

* * *

**December 11th - 16th**

Thursday rolls around with another visit to a new church. They’re surprised to find a large number of worshippers gathered, most of them teenagers. Tom is curious as to why all these teenagers are so pious, and asks one of them why they’re spending their Thursday evening in church. The boy explains that they’re made to go to church one day of the week, but have been allowed to choose which day, and Thursday’s are the only day Father Moran’s holding the sermon.

Intrigued, both Noah and Tom looks forward to discovering what Moran’s doing so right, to make youth flock to him.

Five minutes into the sermon the answer is apparent. It is literally impossible to stay awake to the priests monotonous droning. Tom’s nudged awake by the teenage boy beside him just as Father Moran’s wrapping up.

On the way home Noah says “I wouldn’t mind going back there every Thursday, to be honest.”

Tom chortles. “I guess that’s what you’d call ‘blessed sleep’,” he jokes. Both of them laugh, revitalised by the nap.

Friday Tom drives Noah to the synagogue, but asks if it’s okay if he isn’t present after the initial introduction and having been shown around. Noah’s fine with having the discussion with the   
Rabbi alone. Tom picks him up later. Noah is quiet and contemplative on the way home, but in a content way, so the silence doesn’t bother Tom.

Saturday is spent waiting for Noah to wake up (which he does at 2 pm) and then going to the range together.

Sunday in church is as John-less as the one before. Tom listens to Noah having a conversation with Bonahue afterwards and realises that his son is fast becoming an accomplished politician. He still, miraculously, has Bonahue on his side.

The days just keep ticking away, emotions going up and down like a roller coaster. Some days Noah’s the thing keeping him up, other days parenthood feels like an unbearable yoke.

On Tuesday when Tom’s cooking, Grace surprises him by hugging him from behind and nuzzling him affectionately. “It makes me glad to see you be there for Noah, and bond so strongly,” she says. “He needs someone to talk to.”

“He talks to you too,” Tom points out while stirring the sauce.

“Yes, but not as much. And you’re so encouraging, despite what he’s saying.”

Tom’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “God answers his prayers, Grace. You don’t believe him?” he asks and licks some sauce off his finger.

“You do?” Grace asks, equally surprised. “You truly believe him?”

Tom turns around in her arms, ignoring the food and slipping his own arms around her. He looks down in her wide blue eyes and smiles softly. “Yes. I believe in my heart, that Noah gets his prayers answered.” He dips his head slightly, confessing, “I waver whether he interprets the answers he gets correctly, but I hope he’s right.”

“Oh. I wish I could be so sure. I worry that he’s delusional sometimes. All of this frightens me,” Grace admits and leans her cheek against his chest.

He strokes her soothingly over her hair. “I’ve never seen you be anything but supportive,” he says in a questioning tone.

Grace sighs. “No,” she answers on the exhale. “I wouldn’t dream of showing him my doubts. In the bible, when God destroys Sodom, and Lot’s wife looks back… We’re always told that it’s because she had sin in her heart, but I don’t believe it. They had son in laws, which tells me they had more daughters, possibly even grandkids left in Sodom. I would have looked back too. No, I would have refused to leave. I’d rather be there for my son, even if it means I’m going to Hell. What kind of mother would I be if I wasn’t? But it does make me very happy to see how close the two of you have become. And how rock solid you are, despite...” her sentence hangs in the air unfinished. He’s refused to talk to her about his depression. It’s not her job to comfort him when his heart is breaking for another. It would be cruel to let her. “I chose the right man as a father for my children, that’s what I’m trying to say. For all your faults and flaws, you’re a good man and a great father.”

“So are you, honey,” he murmurs into her hair, not bothering to make joke of it but mentally shrugging the compliment off. They see so little of each other. She can hardly know what he does well and not.

“It’s hard, Tom. I worry about him so much. He’s all grown up, making his own choices, taking responsibilities beyond his age. He’s getting famous, and it scares me. I should be unfazed by it, considering we’ve lived with your fame for so long. But he’s my son, and I fear it’s just a matter of time before he can’t move anywhere in this town unmolested. I’ll have to hose girls out of the yard because of _him_ , not you.”

“What?” Tom asks with a perplexed chuckle.

Grace turns her head up and smiles. “I never told you about that? I suppose I didn’t. During seasons it happened often enough that we had fans around that thought they’d get a glimpse of you here. Once a bunch of girls had come into the yard, trying to peek inside the windows. I got so tired of it that I went outside, attached the hose and showered them with water.”

Tom laughs. “Shit. I didn’t know. I’m sorry. Maybe we should have hired security.”

Grace smirks. “No. There’s one good thing about having Paul as a neighbour. He’s always spying from his windows, and he hates loiterers and other strangers disturbing what goes for ‘peace’ in his mind. He used to call the police before we even discovered we had intruders.”

Tom grins. “Remind me to go over there with a bottle of whiskey and thank him,” he says and bends down to kiss Grace.

She kisses him back. Somehow it turns into a slow makeout session, trading sensual kisses and caressing each other gently. He’s needy for physical affection, more than he’d have expected.

Noah walks into the kitchen. “If you’re gonna suck face with mom, would you at least switch the stove off? If you burn dinner I’m ordering chinese,” he declares with faint disgust on his way to the fridge. 

Tom and Grace chortle but don’t let go of their embrace. “Show a little respect for your parents, young man,” Tom scolds, lips twitching mirthfully.

Noah grabs a coke from the fridge and gives them a dry look. “Dad. This is where we eat. How am I even supposed to keep my appetite? If I wanted to watch porn I’d have done so on internet.”

“If you call this porn, you haven’t found any good sites, son. I’ll bookmark a couple for you,” Tom says with a smirk.

“Tom!” Grace chastises in disbelief, eyes wide and amused.

“Nah. Don’t worry, dad. Pornhub and RedTube takes care of all my needs for me,” Noah retorts.

“ _Noah_!” Grace exclaims and twists around to stare at Noah in shock.

Tom laughs and Noah gives her a shiteating grin, opening his soda. “Oh, come on, mom. It’s not like you’ve never watched porn yourself,” he complains as Grace remains staring wide eyed at him.

Grace blushes a beautiful shade of pink. She sniffs and sticks her chin up. “I’ll have you know, I’ve never watched pornography,” she says with dignity.

Noah looks at Tom. “Seems I’m not the one who needs new bookmarks,” he says and takes a swig on his coke, before wandering out of the kitchen. Tom laughs, and Grace hides her face behind her hands, giggling.

“Oh my God. Some things you just don’t want to know about your son,” Grace says, then throws a narrow eyed glare at Tom. “Or your husband for that matter,” she adds. Tom isn’t sure what to answer, but is saved from speaking when her lips quirk in a sly smirk. “Are PornHub and RedTube really better than Xtube? Have I been wasting my time on the wrong site?”

Tom bursts out laughing. “God, I love you, woman,” he declares and pulls her close again. “Yes,” he says, kissing her. “They have preview pictures flashing if you hover over the thumbnails, not just text.”

Both of them giggle. Tom wishes he could make love to his wife. He really wants to right now, but his body remains as uninterested as always. He kisses her again, because he can, and she lets him. “I have to finish dinner now, honey, or Noah will have to go alone and hungry to today’s sermon.”

Grace extracts herself with a last kiss. “Alright. I’ll help.”

* * *

“Did I step out of line today? In the kitchen?” Noah asks in the car on their way to the unfamiliar church.

“No. Don’t worry about it.”

“I mean, you’ve never told me I’m not allowed to jerk off or anything…”

“Noah, don’t worry. It’s fine.”

“I’m just human. It happens,” Noah frets.

Tom just chuckles and shakes his head.

“I’m tempted sometimes, you know. These girls, suddenly throwing themselves at me…”

Tom hums, amused. Noah is caught up in his own head, worrying, not paying any particular attention whether Tom answers or not. 

“There’s one girl, dad. She’s so… so… _hot_. God damned perfect is what she is. And between lessons she hitches her skirt up so high, you can see her panties when she bends over. She keeps dropping stuff when she’s around me. I know she does it on purpose, I’m not _stupid_.” Noah gestures haphazardly with his hands, watching the snow covered road while he talks.

“No, you’re not,” Tom agrees mostly to encourage Noah to go on, since this is bothering him.

“And she bends over, and I look. So help me God, but I do. And she knows I look because she looks at me looking. But Jesus Christ, dad. You can see her cotton panties follow the shape of her… you know, and I’m affected. I am. I know I shouldn’t look. I feel like some depraved lecher. It’s gross.” He takes off this beanie to run a hand through his hair.

“She’s one of the girls throwing themselves at you since you became a local celebrity?”

“Yeah yeah, she is. Didn’t even bother acknowledging my existence before. Now she’s all ‘Hi, Noah,’ and flirty smiles,” Noah impersonates a sweet, seductive tone. He makes a frustrated sound. “She always touches me when she walks by and there’s a lot of people. Like, squeezes herself by close enough to push her boobs or ass against me. And she smells so good. I don’t know what to do with myself, because it’s, I don’t like it, but at the same time I just wanna…” He makes a squeezing gesture with his hands, like he’s fondling breasts.

Tom knows this isn’t the time to laugh, yet a little snigger escapes him.

Noah throws him a look. “Yeah, no. It’s okay. You can laugh. It’s just stupid. I’m tempted. I’m so God damned tempted. She’s just… _phew_.”

“Maybe she’s the one,” Tom offers benevolently.

“Hah! Yeah, no. Definitely not. She’s not the one. Maybe if she were mute, but…”

Tom laughs. “If she was mute?”

“Yeah. She’s just so dumb. Honest to God, stupid. I get annoyed hearing her speak. She’s not mean or anything, just uneducated and unintelligent, and it’s off putting. I don’t like it. And trying to educate her is beating a dead horse. I’m sure she has other talents. I mean, she’s gotta, right? Everyone is good at something. Maybe she’s good at knitting or something. I dunno.”

“If she’s as hot as you say, maybe she knows she’s stupid, and makes up for it with her body, being good at pleasuring.”

“ _Not helping, dad!_ ”

Tom laughs. “Sorry. It’s not uncommon, though. Women, making themselves valuable through sex, when they feel that’s the only worth they have, wrongfully or not. Men do that too, sometimes.”

Noah makes a displeased noise and scrapes at an invisible spot on his jeans.

“Yeah, well. It’s lucky I’m not prone to awkward boners, like some. I can control myself. Usually. But today, at homeroom, the teacher left and someone put on music. She came over and sat in my lap. Then she, she started to move with the music. She was rubbing against me and I… I… I was affected, okay?” Noah gestures aggressively at his crotch. “I asked her to get off, but she just giggled. It felt God damned good. I admit it. But I still don’t want her to do that.”

“What did you do when she wouldn’t get off you?”

“I didn’t have to do anything. Neda bodily hauled her off me and carried her to the door. He was all like,” Noah does another impersonation, “‘Begone foul whore. Do not come back until you’ve learned to respect boundaries given to you.’ It was mortifying.”

“Neda’s something else. I suspect she won’t go near you for a long time.”

“He is, and you’re wrong. When I was heading for the next class she cornered me, apologising. But not like she was sorry. _Oh no_. She came all close, batting her eyelashes, biting her lip and fiddling with my shirt, offering to ‘make it up to me’. Granted, she scooted off pretty fast when Neda made a grunt of displeasure, but still.” Noah sighs. “How did you deal with temptation back when you were playing hockey?” he asks and looks to Tom for guidance.

“Poorly. Or your mom and I wouldn’t be having a problem.”

“I don’t know, dad. I think you would anyway.”

“How so?”

Noah shrugs. “I can’t put my finger on it. Maybe I’m just a hopeless romantic. Not like Jessi, who believes marriage is the pinnacle of romance, and loves all the old traditions. We both think growing old with the one you’re in love with is the way to go, but…” He raises a hand to bite a nail while he talks. “Justin says that it takes a certain spark, that makes you want to be with the person, no matter what. That their mere presence makes it worth any hardship. And sometimes that spark dies and then, well, shit happens. You should just move on, or be unhappy forever. Jessi thinks that can always be rekindled if you just try hard enough. I’m not so sure. It all comes down to prayers, I― are you up for a long rambling explanation?”

“Always,” Tom answers. He enjoys Noah’s long ramblings when he’s more trying to form a cohesive thought for himself than get his point across.

“You know when I explained to you how I feel when God answers my prayers? That total peace and calm? The surety that things are okay, even when I _know_ things are gonna get tough?”

“I remember it clearly, Champ.”

“You said that the closest you’ve come to feeling like that is playing hockey, right?”

“Mhm.”

“Yeah. Which is a mystery to me because hockey is all violence and pain, but okay.” Noah shakes his head and widens his eyes to show he thinks Tom’s an idiot for finding peace in it.

Tom sniggers, but doesn’t answer. The snowfall has not let up since it started and the roads are treacherous. He keeps his eyes on the road.

Noah goes on. “I was surprised. I honestly believed everyone felt like me. So I’ve been asking around. Turns out, that feeling, many of us get it, but not while praying, and not as strongly as I do, if I understand things correctly. Not with the feeling of being filled with liquid light at least. That’s not the point. That feeling of acceptance and serenity, most people tell me they’ve felt it. And many give the same answer. I think. I think you lied to me, or left a part of your answer out to spare me. Because I think you would have answered differently, if you didn’t think it’d hurt me. You know what they answer?”

Tom casts a troubled and confused look at Noah. “No. What?”

“In the arms of the person they’re in love with.”

Tom looks back on the road. Moments of serenity, when he’d felt like he could die happy, flashes in his head. Stefan. Sam. John. Yes, he’d felt it. That acceptance of whatever was to come, as long as they were near, and they faced it together. He swallows. Doesn’t know what to say again. The longing for John punches a hole in his chest.

“Thought so,” Noah says. “At the swingset, when we talked this spring, and I asked you if you were in love with the woman you’d cheated with… you said it doesn’t matter. But it does. You’ve felt what I’m talking about, haven’t you?”

Tom nods reluctantly.

“But not with mom,” Noah states.

Even more reluctantly, Tom shakes his head.

“And that’s why you’d be having problems even if you hadn’t cheated and fallen in love with someone else. That’s what I think. Jessi thinks I’m full of shit. But I think that feeling, love, is a tiny glimpse of God’s power that lives within us all. And maybe most people need someone or something else to access it, you know? One lady answered her cats. And that’s alright. A guy at school said he could get that feeling sometimes when he played piano. Either way, I think, and that’s the romantic part in me, that when you feel that kind of love for somebody, it’s the first person you think of when things get rough. You still want to be with that person when you’re fighting about something. And that’s not you and mom. When you’re fighting you seek out other people. It takes other people to make you happy with each other. Like before. When it was me, Justin, Jessi, John, you, and mom. We were a happy, functioning family unit then.”

“I love your mom, Noah.”

“But not like that.”

“..........No.”

Noah heaves a sigh. “Thanks for being honest about it.”

“What did mom answer?”

“Hah! Nice try, dad. I haven’t asked. But I’m not gonna tell you anything she’s confided or vice versa. So don’t bother fishing for it.” Noah gives him a reproachful look.

Tom’s lips quirk in a tiny smile. “I won’t.”

“Good.” Noah suddenly snorts in amusement and sits up straight. “Neda is so weird,” he says, changing subject. “Sometimes I wonder if he’s high or has some mental disorder of some kind. Today we were discussing how big of a sin homosexuality actually is. And Neda looked at us like we were the densest people on the planet. He rolled his eyes so hard, I swear it, I thought they were gonna roll right back in his skull and get stuck in there,” Noah snickers. “He said, ‘You humans are so insipid. You twist words around and fail to understand simple instructions. The instructions were; To _reproduce_ mankind shall not lie with mankind. But you cut off two words in the sentence and made it law. Decreeing the Lord had spoken thus. The Lord cares naught for petty things like sex or gender. He bothers only with the soul,’” Noah impersonates. He’s good at impersonating people, adding extra flavour to a story he tells. 

“Neda said God doesn’t think homosexuality is a sin?”

“Yeah. He’s such a dweeb, talking like he wasn’t human himself,” Noah answers with a chuckle. “Oh, oh. Last week I said to him ‘You don’t smile a lot, do you?’ and he asked if it was something he should be doing. I told him it puts people at ease. So almost the whole day he walked around with a smile on his face, creepy-staring at people, freaking them the Hell out. I almost believed he didn’t know what he was doing, but before our last class…” Noah proceeds to tell funny moments from school and Tom relaxes now that they’ve left the volatile subject of him and Grace. On Friday the winter break starts and Noah tells him he’s looking forward to Jessi and Justin coming home. They’re set to come either on Friday or Saturday. Tom’s looking forward to it too, almost as much as he’s dreading it.

* * *


	37. Bringing Sexy Back

## December 2014

* * *

**December 17th**

Wednesday rolls around and once again their living room is overtaken by guests, there to listen to Noah. This time Tom’s prepared. He takes three painkillers in advance and seeks out a spot in the back before everyone have arrived. He’s in fairly good shape. Even manages to talk for fifteen minutes with Percy Maiter, who is practically swooning. The young man is one of those fans who knows everything that’s ever been published about him. Tom gets him a puck that he signs, and allows Percy to get a hug and take a picture before Neda shoos Percy away, just when Tom’s energy is starting to wane. Neda remains standing by Tom’s side, for which he’s grateful. 

When Noah starts nobody pays Tom any heed. Tom might never get over the change in Noah when he’s in the limelight. His son has that ‘It’ factor that can capture a crowd, and has been honing it. Tom scans the people here. He spots the shy, possibly queer/abused girl at Noah’s feet. She really is one of ‘the invisible ones’ who have not-being-seen down to an art. Mrs.Wilson is there, David of course, and a few others Tom recognises. But most are strangers. A couple of adults. Mostly high school youths.

Neda leans in close when he notices Tom inspecting their guests. “They’re all special invites,” she whispers. “He could fill the school auditorium now, but the school won’t allow for it. Mrs.Wilson is trying to find another place for us to be, where we can allow anyone in. Until then, we’ve only invited those most positive or in greatest need of his words.”

Tom nods his understanding, feeling fears laid to rest before they can arise. The fact that he is high helps put him at ease too, but he’s still in control enough to hide it. Grace is standing in the kitchen doorway, listening too. Noah’s not holding a sermon. And it’s not just a bible discussion. He’s telling them his ideas and visions, but leaves a lot of room for interaction and open ended discussion. Tom thinks he’ll have to go wherever Noah decides to take up these meetings when they find a better place to be. He’s started to carry Noah’s speech in his back pocket. He’s memorised every word by now, but he still reads it several times every day. Especially during nights when sleep eludes him. The paper is starting to look frazzled from use, but he doesn’t dare to ask Noah if he can print a new one. He’s afraid it would be about the same thing as saying ‘Heya, Champ! Daddy’s gay and needs to cling to something you said not to blow his brains out.’ It’s true though. Just as true as Tom tells himself several times a day ‘It's not my fault’. Slowly, he’s starting to believe it. Not only about the frightened teenager he once was who got a cruel introduction to sexual intimacy, but about his parents. 

There had been nothing he could do. He’d always tried to please them. Sure, there had been nice moments too. And he had loved them, once. Somehow, admitting to himself that he no longer did, is as heart shattering as it is a relief. He owes them nothing. And underneath that relief lay anger. And something else, something suspiciously close to hate. He’d never thought he _could_ hate anyone but himself. But these moments, when Noah is talking about God, showing him a picture of redemption, he almost believes he is worthy. Tiny glimpses of not hating himself. He’d felt that once before. This feeling of hope and lack of self-hatred. That’s when he’d started triggering when he bottomed. An unthinking phrase from a current boyfriend during sex, had sent him hurdling straight back to the office of the coach, guilt and self-loathing crashing down on him. So maybe it wasn’t just bottoming that did it, but the combination. Some got off on degrading dirty talk. He didn’t. And with his face in the pillow and ass in the air, getting fucked seven ways to Sunday, a simple sentence was all it took to shatter the tenuous, fragile sense of self worth he’d manage to build since leaving home.

Sometimes he missed being the bottom because it could feel extraordinarily good. Stefan had showed him that. How it could be, when switching was just a mood thing, and the trust and love was absolute.

He hears the key in the lock but doesn’t register the meaning of that until Justin steps into the living room with a bemused smirk, looking around at the gathered people. Tom’s heart leaps into his throat. He’s days early. And gorgeous. New, shorter haircut, tanned, back to having a coloured streak in his dark hair―chartreuse this time―and piercings worn openly. He’s got a goddamned _bow_ in his hair and his eyes pops with the makeup he’s wearing. Not just a line of kohl, but mascara and eyeliner, yet he doesn’t look like a drag queen. The leather jacket, jeans, tight fitting on top and flaring over combat boots, black button down shirt, has nothing feminine about it. Neither does his posture or the cocky way he walks. Most notable change though, is the confidence he radiates. The defensive, withdrawn edge is gone. The confidence isn’t skin deep anymore, it comes from within.

The beast inside of Tom wakes up and is raring to go.

“Justin!” Noah exclaims at the sight of him and abandons what he’s been talking about just to throw himself at Justin, laughing, hugging him.

A look of surprise pass over Justin’s face, then he laughs and hugs back. A real hug. Tom can’t express how much it lightens his heart to see true affection displayed openly. 

Noah frees himself, keeping an arm slung around Justin’s shoulders. He turns to the gathered people. “Everyone, meet my big brother Justin. Justin, this is everyone,” he says proudly, with a sweeping gesture over the room and broad grin.

David comes up to Juss, grabs his hand in a handshake and gives him a more socially acceptable backslapping hug. “Welcome home, bro,” David says.

Justin’s still smiling, but had gotten an astonished look on his face when he was introduced as Noah’s brother, something shaken and touched, softening up his features. He quickly manages to get a cocky mask in place again, but the warm softness around his eyes remains.

Grace is there embracing him, smile wide and welcoming, looking like it’s a truly wonderful surprise to see him home early. She doesn’t want to let him go, and it makes Justin laugh, warm and open. Tom hauls his ass over there. Lord, he just wants to snag the young man from all the people and drag him down to the den, hold him and never let go. He can’t, of course. Just like he can’t bury his nose in his neck and inhale his scent when Grace finally lets go and it’s his time to hug. At least the open affection shown by the others allows him to give Juss a real hug. He’s nervous too. He’ll be needing to tell Juss about John. And maybe Juss is finally over him. Maybe he no longer wants Tom’s needy affection. It feels so good though, the all too brief press of Justin’s body to his while he hears Noah explain to their guests that Juss has been away for college and that he’s come home early for winter break.

When all the greetings are cleared out of the way, someone puts their hand up, calling attention to themselves. Noah bids them to speak. “Are you really brothers? You don’t look anything alike?” the guy asks.

“He’s adopted. But in here,” Noah pats his heart, “blood relation holds no bearing. We’re family,” he explains and Grace nods along with a wide smile.

Another girl, sitting on the floor, puts her hand up and gets permission to speak. “Are you gay?” she asks Justin.

He snorts in amusement, unoffended. “Nope.”

“Then why are you wearing makeup?” the girl asks, puzzled.

Justin shrugs out of his leather jacket and Grace takes it from him to go hang it up. The sleeves of Justin’s button down are rolled up to his elbows, revealing his tattoos. He’s wearing broad leather cuffs with silver rings on them―the kind you can easily attach a chain to if you were of a mind. A hunger awakens inside Tom, an appetite he hasn’t felt since that night with John back in October. It’s a spark of life. The very reason he didn’t want Justin near. If the young man lets him, he’ll use him to stay afloat. Squeeze out every moment of physical closeness he can get. It’ll be devastating for Justin if he’s not over Tom. A rekindling of hopeless hope. 

A lopsided smirk grows on Justin’s face. He tilts his head the way he used to when he had bangs covering one eye (both he and Sam had that move down) and narrows his eyes with an impish gleam, dimples drilling his cheeks. He saunters over to the girl who asked the question and crouches down to her eye level, meeting her gaze squarely and playfully. “Because, my beautiful lady...“ he leans a little bit closer. “It makes my eyes _pop_ , just like yours. And it makes me gorgeous, just, like, you,” he says, all sly and flirty, then smirks just _so_ and flips his tongue piercing out to glint between his teeth. He reaches out and grazes the girl’s chin lightly with two fingers. She turns a deep crimson. Tom thinks her pants must be burning up, because Justin is bringing his A-game and Lord knows _Tom_ feels the need to fan himself. Juss left for college cowering, with a hoodie pulled over his head to hide himself. He came back bringing his own soundtrack - ‘SexyBack’ by Justin Timberlake.

Noah, David, and a couple of other snicker or giggle at the show Justin’s putting up. 

“Oh, do behave, Mr.Robinson,” Mrs.Wilson scolds without any edge.

Justin rises to his feet and smiles sympathetically at her. “It’s Mr.Moore or Rainsborough nowadays, Mrs.Wilson,” he (boldly) corrects her, without the defiance he once cloaked himself in. He does throw a quick glance towards Grace who just smiles wider and gives him a little nod of confirmation that it’s okay. “I’d prefer if you don’t mention the name of the two people who spent all my childhood and teenage years trying to eradicate my passion and will to live,” he says without direct reproach. He faces the whole room with a little quirk of the lip and face softening. “Nearly succeeded too. Before these fine people took me in and made me part of their family.”

Lord, he’s changed! Justin is definitely loving the attention, and wooing his audience in a different way than Noah. This is the difference made by not having to fight for one’s identity. Tom loves what he’s seeing.

“It’s the Christian thing to do,” Noah says at the same time as Mrs.Wilson says “Dear child,” and puts a hand over her heart. Juss had her as a teacher too, and she might have been accepting of him, but the school didn’t leave room for those who stood out the wrong way. With the bone-deep distrust Justin had for adults, Mrs.Wilson wouldn’t have been able to help him if she tried.

Most of the people in the room are staring unabashedly, either as if they don’t know what to make of the spectacle or with some level of excited smiles on their faces. Justin’s an odd novelty in these parts, and since most people in here are not Noah and Jessi’s usual crowd, few are those who’ve gotten to meet him up close and personal.

“You all look curious. I don’t know what I’m interrupting, but if you got any questions, feel free to ask them now,” Justin says to the gathering, inviting smile on his face and meeting the eyes of everyone there, holding his hands out to his sides invitingly. A circus freak, offering himself up as entertainment, or a magician, about to bedazzle all and make a killing.

Sure enough, hands are shooting up. Questions come mostly from the younger people. What’s he studying? Did it hurt to get piercings? What’s on his tattoos? What’s his star sign? Does he really live here? Does he believe in God? Is he single? Some of the adults ask questions too. But those questions are centered around the scholarship he received for his swimming. He tells them he hasn’t lost a single competition since he got on the team. When he’s accused of lying (bragging), he chuckles and digs up a bunch of medals from the backpack he’d dumped by the door. Tom is beaming with pride. So are Grace and Noah. Juss flirts with everybody. Not necessarily the flirting he’d directed towards the first girl. More charming them with compliments. Amping up the sexual undertone with girls, being ambiguous with some of the guys, and acting charming and respectful towards the oldest guests. Tom had once dubbed him the snake in Eden. He still holds fast by that. There’s something calculating in the way Juss works the crowd, unlike Noah’s earnest aura. Tom wonders where this crowd pleasing ability is coming from.

After a while the initial buzz dies down and Justin walks over to the couch and says something to one of the girls sitting there. She giggles, nods, and rises. He sits down where she just sat and she sits down in his lap. Sex on legs indeed. And he knows it. Tom wonders if Juss got any studying done _at all_ down in Cali. Noah picks up where he was interrupted and Justin participates actively in any discussions and quotes the bible perfectly, surprising some. But whatever you say about Justin and his looks, his faith is strong.

Tom keeps himself in the background when things wrap up and people start leaving. He watches Justin be formally introduced to Neda, trying to ambiguously flirt with _him_ with zero success. It seems like Neda truly doesn’t respond to Justin’s come ons because he doesn’t get them. They’re not blatant after all, not like Juss had been with the girls. But Tom has his suspicions.

_You know he’s trying to get you into bed, don’t you?_ he thinks, looking at Neda’s back from his vantage point a couple of yards away. Neda turns his head and winks conspiratorially at Tom.

Tom shakes himself, thinking he’s going mad.

Tom doesn’t come forward until everyone, including David and Neda have left, missing most of what’s been said, but content not to have to socialize too much. They all pile into the kitchen. “How come you’re early?” Tom asks Justin.

At the same time Grace bids “Tell us all about how San Francisco's treating you.”

Justin stops and says “No. First off, timeout. What the hell is going on here?” He turns to Noah with raised eyebrows and wide eyes. “Second of all, _what the hell is going on here_?”

Noah rubs his neck self-consciously and looks at his feet. “Um. You remember Martin, that I told you about?” he asks, peeking up at Juss without angling his face up. 

Justin nods with exaggerated slowness. “Uhuh….?”

Noah looks down again. “Both mom and dad said that it was hate rhetorics that caused the attack. I… realised I had been part of spreading it, without meaning to. I mean, sin or not, nothing can justify what happened to Martin. All I said before was that homosexuals must be made to change their way and led into the light. I never said anything about beating them up or killing them. But people twist words and― anyway. It’s my fault. I’m part of the problem. And it has to change.”

Justin sits down by the kitchen table, staring at Noah. He huffs, a noise that could mean anything.

Tom goes to get a bottle of whiskey, holding it up to Grace with raised eyebrows. She nods and goes to get glasses for them. Noah and Juss are too intent on each other or the floor to notice the silent exchange.

“So I prayed about it, trying to find a solution….” Noah continues, putting his hands in his pockets and scraping his sock clad toes over the back of his other foot. “And God answered,” he mumbles, intent on his feet.

“Come again?” Juss prompts, eyes going wider, angling his ear towards Noah’s direction in the classic I-heard-what-you-said-but-it-was-totally-unbelievable-so-I’m-giving-you-a-chance-to-change-your-answer expression.

Grace puts four glasses down on the table, goes to fetch four water bottles while Tom, being a schoolbook example from the ‘Bad Parenting 101’ class, pours a hefty amount for all four of them. Frankly, he couldn’t care less if Noah skips school tomorrow and on Friday before the winter break starts. And as young as Noah is, in 11 days he can buy his own booze. 

Apparently, Grace has taken a page out of Tom’s playbook, because she switches on the kitchen fan and puts down an ashtray on the table. Tom raises his eyebrows in surprised question. Grace gives him a resigned shrug and makes a small sweeping gesture at the three of them, all smokers. If it was summer, she probably wouldn’t be so lenient. But it’s cold outside, and anytime they go out to smoke they track snow inside.

Noah and Juss remains oblivious to the silent conversation going on behind their back. Noah pulls his shoulders up and dips his head lower. His socks are extremely interesting to him at the moment. “Um. I said, God answered me.” His cheeks are starting to turn pink. It’s hard to believe this is the same guy who carries himself with such self-confidence and stood up before the whole congregation, threatening to leave, and making people shut up so he could talk.

Tom sits down opposite of Juss, takes up his Marlboros and lighter, lights a cig and puts the packet on the table close to where Noah’s standing. Grace sits down beside Justin, takes a sip of whiskey and looks at the two boys.

Justin shakes his head without taking his gaze of Noah. “Speak up, Noe, because I’m not sure I’m hearing you correctly,” he prompts.

Noah takes a deep breath, steels himself, and looks up, meeting Justin’s gaze squarely. Tom is shaken by all the fear and vulnerability in his gaze. He hadn’t realised how much Justin’s (and probably Jessi’s) acceptance means to Noah. “God answered my prayers,” Noah says, voice steady but cheeks turning crimson.

Justin barks a short laugh. Not the entertained kind, but the what-the-hell-did-I-just-hear-and-how-do-I-react-to-it? kind. “I’m sorry. I― You mean, God, as in the all powerful Creator of the whole _Universe_ , talks to, to _you_?” he says, eyes round in sceptical disbelief.

“Yes,” Noah answers, chin up in defiance. “Not with words, but He answers.”

“And you believe that?”

“Yes.” Noah’s firm in his answer, but looks on the verge of turning on his heel to flee.

Justin twists his head to look at Tom, who nods in confirmation and smiles encouragingly, then at Grace, who gives him a closelipped smile. (A little too neutral for Tom’s taste.) Justin looks back at Noah. “Wow. Okay. Yeah. Why not? Seems legit. No offense, Noe, but do you understand how batshit crazy that sounds?”

“I didn’t, actually. Until I told people about it. I thought it was something everyone experienced.”

“Nope. Not even close,” Justin says with a short headshake. His face is still locked in the _what-the-hell?_ expression.

“Yeah, no. I got that,” Noah mutters, looking down on his feet again.

Justin discovers there’s a drink poured for him, an ashtray on the table, and that Tom’s smoking, watching them. Juss drains half the glass, procures a soft pack of cheap cigarettes of his own, taps one out and lights it. “So what? You just went out and told people you and God are chat buddies, and they straight up believed you?” he asks, looking back at Noah.

“Not… not exactly.”

Justin pushes the chair on the corner of the table out with his foot, points at it and snaps his fingers. “Sit down,” he requests.

Noah sits down immediately, obediently. Tom wonders if their dynamics have always been this way or if it’s the circumstances that does it. He can’t remember seeing Noah be so deferential towards Juss. But then again, he’s never watched them interact one-on-one. He remembers Juss confessing he didn’t want to let Jessi and Noah know how afraid he was after he himself had been threatened, because they saw him as cool, and he wanted to keep it that way. He keeps quiet, ready to interfere if needed, but allowing the youths to work this out themselves if they can. 

As soon as Noah’s sat down Justin nudges Noah’s drink towards him, taps out a cigarette from his soft pack and makes a move to offer it to Noah. Then he halts his movement to twist his head and looks at Grace, lifting his eyebrows in a silent ‘is this okay?’. She nods, and he lifts the cigarette to his mouth, lights it by holding its tip against the cherry of his own cig while puffing on it. Then he offers it to Noah, and nudges the drink even closer to him.

Noah takes a careful sip of the whiskey, shudders and puts it down, then takes a deep drag on the cigarette and starts relaxing. Tom can’t say he agrees with Juss’ methods, despite he himself being the one initiating it. He wants to pause time to have a lengthy discussion with Grace about it. He meets her gaze, but she remains passive. They’re currently providing silent support for both boys. Supervising. Until this is cleared up, the stage is taken by the boys.

“Alright, Noah. God answered your prayers, saying gay bashing is bad. Then what? How did it get from there, to setting up camp Livingstone in our living room?” Justin asks, coaxing a little amused snort from Noah and smiles from both Grace and Tom, at the reference to the famous missionary. SF had done nothing to refine Justin. But right now the crudeness adds a bit of humour that puts Noah a bit more at ease.

“Um… I thought a lot about what needed to be done, and wrote a speech about it. Then, when Bonahue was at it, preaching the hate God disapproves of, I stood up and, um, told him it’s enough.”

Justin’s cig holding hand stops halfway on its way to his mouth. Eyes disbelieving and mouth hanging open and slack. “No shit?”

Noah braves a smile, takes another careful sip of whiskey, another breath of smoke to chase it down. His knee starts bouncing restlessly. “No shit. So I held my speech. Scared shitless. Forgot more than half of it, which in hindsight was a good thing or they would have hanged me from the nearest tree. I told them if they weren’t prepared to change, I’d leave the congregation.”

Justin mouths a silent ‘Wow!’, stares at Noah silently for a moment, then looks around the room with a troubled frown. “Alright. Where is it? Where have you hidden it?”

“Hidden what?” Noah asks in puzzlement.

“The wagon and the two draft horses required to tote around your giant balls of steel,” Juss jokes with a serious tone.

Noah lets out a relieved laugh and Tom grins, a burst of pride in his chest.

“So what did you say?” Justin asks, smirking in satisfaction at getting Noah to relax.

“Um. I don’t remember exactly….” Noah begins.

“Here,” Tom breaks in, pinches his cig in his mouth, and takes up the speech from his back pocket. “Get me a pen,” he tells the company in general. He taps ashes off his cigarette and smooths out the papers while Grace fetches a pen. The speech is hard to read in some places, due to being folded in the same grooves so often. Grace hands him a pen and he quickly draws a line at the side of the paragraphs that Noah had said out loud. If he wasn’t high he hadn’t done this, hadn’t shown them he carries it on his person. Right now he isn’t paying it a single thought though. When he’s done he hands the papers to Justin. “The underlined paragraphs are those he said, those without he forgot.”

Justin takes the speech and starts reading with avid curiosity. Noah looks at Tom, eyes bright in touched wonder. “You keep it on you?”

“What can I say, Champ? You made a big impression on your old man,” Tom answers with a warm smile and gives Noah an affectionate slow motion mock punch, grazing his jaw with a loose fist. Not until he’s called out on it does he remember that showing them he has it, may be incriminating. But a quick glance at Grace only shows her with a sappy ‘awww’ face, looking at Tom and Noah. Tom’s so locked up in his own bubble that he more often than not forgets that being gay isn’t the only reason a father would carry around proof of a son’s major accomplishments in his pocket. Even if it’s gay friendly. Seven times out of ten, he’s probably worrying about things for no reason at all. And by the look on Noah’s face―grateful, moved, happy―it means a great deal to him to know that Tom’s taken the speech to heart.

Justin’s reading with eyes going wider, more excited, with each row his eye movements track. Now and then he emits little sounds of amusement or disbelief, sipping his drink and smoking without taking his eyes off the papers. Tom sees how his eyes snag on the same places his own glued themselves to when reading it. At last he looks up at Noah. “You mean this shit, Noe? You actually did an 180?”

Noah nods, knee bouncing faster, holding his glass in front of himself in his lap, spinning it unconsciously in his hands.

“Holy shit.” Justin looks down on the speech, then up at Noah again. “So how come they didn’t decide to re-uptake the practise of stoning right then and there?”

Noah looks down on his lap and shrugs in a silent equivalent of a mumbled ‘I dunno…’ He raises his cig to take a hit on it without meeting Justin’s eyes.

“Just when Noah had finished his speech everyone were stunned at his threat to leave. Then, right then, the rains came,” Tom cuts in.

Justin’s eyes widen in surprise, looking at Tom. “No f _ffff_ ―“

“Justin,” Grace warns sharply.

“―flopping shit?” Justin corrects himself, making all of them chuckle.

“No joke. Noah said his piece, and God ended the drought. Many credit Noah for it, and therefore this had a much greater impact than it might have otherwise,” Grace tells him.

“Yeah. I get why.” Justin turns to face Noah head on and pats him on the knee. “Hey, Noe. Look at me.” Noah looks up and meets his gaze. Justin holds up the speech for emphasis. “This shit? I’m here for this shit. This almost makes me wish I’d stuck around for my last year. I don’t care if you’re ready for the loony bin, or if you’re really schmoozy with the Lord. It doesn’t matter. With this you’re bending Pine Glen over, an―“

“ _Justin_!” Grace warns with a scowl.

“* _cough_ *―throwing firecrackers in the mailboxes of every home in Pine Glen, and I’m so here for that.” Justin swiftly corrects. “The things you’ve decided to suddenly oppose are the things that messed up my entire childhood. Whatever you need from me, you got it, okay? You need me to tone down this,” he makes a circular gesture with a finger around his face, “I’ll do it. Put on a suit and transform to a goody two-shoes like John when he goes to work. Anything. Ask, and you shall receive.”

“Really?” Noah asks, smile breaking out like the sun from clouds on his face.

“Hell yeah. And I got to say, you’ve always been a good public speaker and all, but that,” he gestures with his head towards the living room, “was way better than when I last saw you speak for an audience.”

“You didn’t do bad either,” Noah says with a grin, soaking up the compliment.

“No,” Justin agrees, taking a last hit on the cigarette before squishing it in the ashtray and pushing the lid button. “But I take classes in it, remember? I study Professional Communications. My teacher in public speaking is a devious bastard who’s been working with me to work my assets as well as to try to teach me when to tone them down. And, not to be a braggart, but I’m making a splash on campus due to my success in the water. Got my own little fan club and everything. I _like_ being the center of attention. You don’t.”

That pretty much marks the end of the tense situation and allows them to start bombard Justin with questions of his life in SF. Tom reflects that Justin really meant that he likes to be the center of positive attention, and hearing he’s getting it, warms Tom. He can’t tell if Justin’s still into him or not. There’s no covert flirting. But then again, Juss has both Noah and Grace’s full attention, and the young man isn’t stupid. Juss had finished all his midterms and hadn’t felt like hanging around in SF just to wait for Jessi. So he’d come home early. He admits that he’s focusing so hard on his swimming career that he sometimes struggle with his studies. Tom calls him out on it, pointing out that cutting out on the partying might be of help. That earns him a smirk and a sharp look he doesn’t understand. Juss tells them that even if his studies goes to shit, he’d be good. He’s been scouted by other swim teams and are starting to get sponsors, as the competitions he enters keeps getting bigger. Grace wonders what he’d do if he suddenly started losing. Juss, showing off an unusually arrogant side, says that the only thing that can stop him from winning, is preventing him from going into the water. He says it with such conviction that Tom believes him. He tells them his goal is to become American champion, World Champion, and Olympic Champion. He wants them there to watch it happen when the time comes. He also says that he plans to retire from competing once he’s taken those three titles. That’s why he does his best to not fall behind in his studies.

“I looked up the possibility to adopt an adult,” Grace tells Justin. “It can be done for inheritance rights. I think it’d be hard to do, since your parents are still alive, and may kick up a fuss just for the sake of it. We’d be required to appear in court either way, but it can be done, if you want to. You’d be a legal part of this family. The other option is a common name change. Not as costly, and you can choose whichever name you want. The second option requires some odd rules, like posting about the name change in a newspaper, three weeks in a row. We’ll pay for it if you want to go through with it. You’d still be a part of this family, in spirit, whichever you choose. Even if you want to cling onto Robinson.”

Justin’s smile had frozen on his face when she started talking about adopting him. He draws breath as if to say something, but lets it out again, swallows. His smile starts twitching, so does the muscles by his eyes and his brows. Another hard swallow and a hand coming up covering his mouth. The mask cracking, little by little in front of them. His eyes start to tear up and he grabs his pack of cigarettes and gets to his feet. “Excuse me for a bit,” he says and hastens to the porch door, opening it and going out into the cold night. He stops by the edge of the porch and taps out a cigarette. They can’t see his face well, but they can see how his hands shake as he lights the cig, takes a drag and looks up at the inky starlit sky.

They don’t talk enough, Grace and Tom. Tom thinks this is one of those things they should have discussed―would have, a few years back. Not that he has anything to oppose against the idea to adopt Juss, except for how it makes their sordid affair even more sordid. That’s hardly a reason to oppose it. Not considering how close Juss and Jessi are, and how proudly Noah had introduced him as a brother, or how happy Grace had been to see him back. He’s already part of the family in every way that counts. 

Noah is the one to go after Justin, when he’s been outside for a short while. They can see the boys talk, then Noah holds out his arms and Juss flings his cig out in the snow and turns into the open, waiting arms. Before he burrows his head in Noah’s shoulder they have time to see tear tracks on his cheek catch the light from the kitchen.

When they get back in, Justin dries his eyes and sits down. “Sorry about that. You caught me off guard. You ruined my elaborate plan where I coax Jess into skipping off to marry me in Vegas, then divorce her three months later, keeping the name,” he says with a sly smirk, mask back in place.

“ _Justin_! You scoundrel!” Grace exclaims with a scandalized laugh, giving him a light smack on the arm.

Justin cackles. “Relax. I wasn’t going to consummate the marriage,” he says with a shiteating grin, teasing Grace further. It lifts the awkward post-crying blanket and once again they’re talking and laughing, telling stories of their months apart. It’s the first time Tom’s heard Grace talk about the work she does in the poor neighbourhoods nowadays. The Croatoan is no longer an issue, but she’s discovered how much she loves personally helping those who can’t afford help, instead of just orchestrating charity events. Noah talks about his school adventures, and his new role as a mouthpiece for God. Tom’s surprised he himself has so many fun things to tell. His successes at competitions, the visits to the range and churches with Noah. How Neda came into their lives.

“Isn’t John coming over tonight?” Juss asks.

It’s a bucket of cold water, straight in the face.

“We had a disagreement. He isn’t coming over anymore,” Tom says in a tone conveying he isn’t going to discuss it.

“Nobody’s seen him for weeks,” Noah chips in. “He could be dead for all we know.”

“Really?” Justin asks in surprise. He turns his head and looks Tom square in the eyes. “That’s odd. Because he came to visit me, not even a week ago. And he didn’t mention any quarrel between you.”

And just like that, Tom’s a bundle of crippling anxiety all over again.

* * *


	38. A Reasonable Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justin confronts Tom.

## December 2014

* * *

**December 17th - 18th**

When Noah remembers it’s a school day and calls it a night, Tom bids his family good night too. He takes two more painkillers before he leaves the kitchen, just to put a lid on the angst crawling inside of him. He just wants to hide in the den, out of sight. He can’t sleep of course. 

John’s visited Justin.

What did he say? What did he do?

He almost considers locking the door so Justin can’t come down here, should he try. But then what? Hide down here forever? It’s not an option.

His head is whirling with nervous thoughts. All he can do now is wait. Justin’s probably not coming down anyway. 

He paces. Lies down listening to music. Gets up to pace some more. Puts on a movie he can’t focus on.

John visited Justin less than a week ago. 

_I wonder how he looks like these days? Is his hair longer? Is he doing alright? What’s happening with the divorce? Does he get enough sleep?_

He feels envious of Justin, for getting to see him. Talk to him. Look into those dark, warm brown eyes. Envy. It’s a rare feeling for him. Jealousy even rarer. He more or less lacks the sense of entitlement that drives both those feelings. He’s been jealous of his kids at times. For getting the love his parents should have bestowed on him. Anytime he’d felt that jealousy, he’d hated himself for it. He no longer wanted his parents love and approval. That became more true each day. Every time he looked himself in the mirror and told himself “It’s not my fault,” it settled more firmly in him. So much wasted time. 

But this _was_ his fault. John knowing about him and Juss. All his fault. If he hadn’t granted Cal’s wish for one last kiss… he’d probably have messed up some other way. Better not fret about what he shouldn’t have done when it was already done.

The TV is showing explosions and some FBI agent running, trying to catch a small time pot dealer, wreaking havoc on half the city doing so. Knowing the backstory and the real plot, the viewer will think it totally justified. Without that knowledge, it’s insane. He wonders if there’s some major plot in his life that will justify the lives he’s destroyed by being so depraved. 

Time passes slowly, but he manages to calm down, much helped by the prescription drugs and alcohol imbibed tonight. He stares at the TV screen, not following the story whatsoever. It’s mostly fighting scenes and explosions anyway. He’s grateful for the drugged state he’s in. Without it, he’d probably be having a fully fledged panic attack in the bathroom by now, instead of just restless nervous energy.

Then he hears the sound he’s both been dreading, and subconsciously longing for - the door opening and closing, the lock clicking shut. He keeps staring at the TV, too nervous to show he hears it. His pulse is racing. Soft, practised bare feet squirrel down the stairs, deftly avoiding those places where the stairs creak. Tom vows not to turn around, but breaks almost immediately when the movements still, and nothing else happens.

He turns around in the couch to see Justin stand in the middle of the room, looking at him with an unreadable expression. He’s removed his button down, wearing a tight black tank top, his jeans from before with the trademark keychain, and those leather cuffs with their metal rings. He’s removed the bow from his hair and washed the makeup off, but his piercings are in place. He’s so god damned gorgeous. Tom just wants to go over there and wrap his arms around him, inhale his scent, and taste that luscious mouth.

Tom gets out of the couch and walks up to him, stopping in front of him on a respectable distance. Justin tracks him with his eyes, but says nothing. This close Tom can hear the * _brrt, brrt, brrt_ * song of his tongue stud, declaring he’s thinking. “You look gorgeous, Juss. Cali has done you good,” Tom says. Justin’s nostrils flare and the tongue stud stop being dragged along the teeth for a beat, just to start up again half a second later. “But,” Tom adds, “we’ve got to talk.”

Like dropping a match in gasoline, Justin explodes. His face twists in an angry grimace and he shoves Tom forcefully in the chest, making him stagger backward. “What the fuck is wrong with you? The fuck were you thinking? You’re fucking insane! Why the fuck did you tell him about us? Did you think he’d somehow get into his head that he wanted to be with you instead of letting you be with me? That he’d, I dunno, keep thinking you were a nice and dandy dude, and that he’d suddenly want to try a little sausage out? Fuck you! Why did you tell him?” Justin spits out, hands fisting at his side. 

“What did he say? He didn’t threaten you, did he?” Tom asks worriedly in response.

“Fuck that! Why did you tell him?!”

Tom holds up his hands in defense. “I didn’t tell him, Juss. He figured it out by himself.”

“That’s bullshit! He’s made an artform of coming up with ways to excuse what he saw as straight behaviour. I wasn’t even _here_. How the hell would he be able to figure it out?”

“He saw me kiss a man.”

That shuts Justin right up. Tom might as well have slapped him.

“He saw me kiss a man, and put two and two together after that,” Tom repeats calmly. All the nerves he’d been building up, are gone now that the confrontation is finally happening. 

“Who? Who did you kiss?” Justin asks accusingly. His lower jaw sets angrily and lips compress to a thin line.

“His name is Cal. I used to hook up with him sometimes, before we got started,” Tom says and gestures between them with a hand. “It meant nothing to me, and I ignored his calls once you and I hooked up. But he wouldn’t stop calling me. He had feelings for me, so once you were gone I decided he was worthy to be let down in person. So we met up, talked it out, I followed him to his apartment building and he asked if he could get one last kiss before we parted. Stupid as I am, I agreed. John showed up and saw us. I don’t know what he was doing there, but that’s how it went down. Three days later John showed up, we had an argument. He called me out on our affair and gave me hell for it. Since then, he’s no longer friends with me,” Tom recites, handing over the heavily censored cliff note version of what happened. He doesn’t want to feed Justin’s jealousy by mentioning that he and Cal had sex after Juss left, nor mention the kiss shared with John. That John tore his gun from his hands before he was to pull the trigger on himself, is definitely not something the young man needs to know.

Justin’s still and quiet for a while, staring at him. The explosive anger is gone, leaving hurt more than anything. He’s still mad―Tom can see that―but going through a whole range of other upset emotions as well. “When was this?” Justin asks sharply at long last, but calmer.

“September.”

“Fuck.” Justin lifts his hands and fists his hair, bends his neck and curls his shoulders inwards. He rocks himself from side to side like an animal in a too small cage. “Four fucking months. No wonder that he... _Fuck, fuck, fuck,_ ” he mutters to himself.

Tom’s got no idea why it upsets Juss that it was months ago. It shouldn’t make a difference. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry. I truly am,” Tom says, stepping closer to him again, holding his palms out to declare his sincerity.

Justin’s head snap up. He scrutinizes Tom with a slightly desperate, haunted look. “Have there been anyone else since then?” he asks. You don’t have to be a genius to figure out that it’d hurt him massively to hear that there has been. Justin’s feelings are anything but gone.

“No,” Tom lies. _Except for John himself._ “I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather since then.” Understatement. “Haven’t had it in me. Not until you stepped inside the house again.” That part is true at least.

Justin puts his hands in his back pockets and looks down on the floor. He shakes his head, seemingly to himself. He won’t look at Tom, weighs from one foot to another, mouth compressed to a sad little line, hiding those lush, beautiful lips. His brows are drawn and Tom just knows he is on the verge of tears. Something’s gotta give, because Tom just wants to hold him. Get to touch him again. Make reality of the idea he’d gotten when he saw Juss in the living room. He’s missed Justin, more than he thought he had. It’s been overshadowed by the heartbreak of losing John, along with common sense telling him to let go of the boy. It’s a cursed blessing that the painkillers dulls his sensitivity to Justin’s distress. Justin needs to go now. Or...

“Justin. If you go upstairs now, I will let this rest, and treat you as decency and honour dictates. This ends now, and we’ll put this behind us. If you stay, I’m not going to fight with you. ….Go now,” he says and waits.

Justin throws him a look, then goes back to looking at the floor, eyes wandering back and forth, looking at something inside his head. Tongue stud singing its song against his teeth.

Tom’s so tired of letting everyone else dictate. Seconds have ticked down, stretching time like a rubber band. Tom’s the one to think ‘Screw it,’ and start moving. Trying to always be a good guy is exhausting, and he wants to… he just _wants_. Justin only has to say one word and he’ll back down. But for now, he doesn’t want to stand around angsting while the young man tries to make up his mind. 

Justin looks up at him when he crowds in close, wordlessly asking what Tom’s doing, bitterness and insecurity in his gaze. Tom reaches out and unhooks the key chain carabiner from Justin’s pants, gaze locked with Justin. He unclasps the keys from the carabiner on the other end of the chain and drops the keys on the floor, watching bitterness turn into puzzled curiosity in Justin’s green eyes. “Time’s up, sea sprite,” Tom says and grabs Justin’s wrist, pulling his hand out of the pocket, towards himself. He smirks as he clasps the carabiner onto one of the metal rings on the leather cuff Justin’s wearing. Justin makes a breathy little sound when he catches up on what Tom’s doing, looking down on his cuffed hand. Tom grabs his other wrist, meeting no resistance, and repeats the process. “You stayed. Your ass is mine,” he says, twists the chain around his fist, and yanks them flush.

He burrows his other hand in the back of Justin’s hair and tugs, angling his face upward. Justin just goes with it, chest starting to heave, licking his lips, eyes wide with anticipation. “Yes, Sir,” he says, voice scratchy. 

It’s more permission than Tom needs. He’d have gone for ‘no verbal protest’ in his state. God, but he’s missed this. He bends his neck to kiss the young man. Juss makes a little whimpering noise and kisses back, closing his eyes. Juss tries moving his hands, grasping for him, but Tom’s grip on the chain stop him from doing more than grasping feebly at Tom’s belt. Tom chuckles into the kiss. “Missed me?”

“Yes,” Justin answers and follows him needily when Tom pulls away, like he hadn’t just been pissed off at him, pushing him away. Justin frowns in frustration when Tom holds him on arm lengths distance.

“One moment,” Tom says and tugs him along with the chain, going to the living room table. He picks up the remote and turns up the volume of the movie, so that if anyone wakes up and goes downstairs, all they’d hear from the door to the den, is the sound of the movie. “There. Now I can take care of you.” He turns back to Justin and pulls him back into a kiss, while he starts backing them towards the bed. 

Justin gets going as easily as always. He gets hard as easily, and comes as easily. He makes the same beautiful small sounds. Tom’s being a teasing little shit, preventing Justin from touching and tasting with the help of the chain. Justin curses him frustratedly, but makes no move to end the game when Tom temporarily unclasps one carabiner to be able to remove his shirt. Likewise, he obediently threads his legs through the chain so his hands are behind his back, when Tom asks him to. If he really didn’t enjoy this game, he wouldn’t have cooperated. 

The months apart had brought small changes that bespoke what Tom had suspected already when Juss walked in―that Juss has been having sex with others. It shows in a greater confidence when it comes to opening his mouth. Tom knows it from the first gasped request “Talk dirty to me,” to the many “more”, “faster”, “please”, and “don't stop”. There are sentences mumbled that Tom can’t hear, but he thinks it's just a matter of time before Justin dares saying them loud enough for Tom to hear. He’s a lot better at taking what he wants now and Tom loves it.

Afterwards Tom removes the cuffs entirely and drops them on the floor beside the bed. They lay side by side, Justin on his back, Tom on his side, panting and post coital lax, while their breathing slowly evens out and heart rates slows down. Tom can’t stop placing little kisses on Justin's shoulder, a hand dancing continuously over his stomach and pecs. The night had revealed another fabulous surprise, as Justin had pierced his other nipple as well. Tom’s as addicted to tweaking and suckling them, as Justin is to him doing it. “Did you use protection?” Tom asks, knowing it will spoil the content and blissed out mood.

“What?”

“You’ve been fucking around. Did you use protection?” Tom repeats the question lazily.

Justin tenses up and supports himself on his elbows, looking down at Tom with a scowl. “You _told_ me to fuck others, Sir,” he protests defensively.

Tom chuckles. “I did. It’s not an accusation. I just want to know if you practised safe sex.”

“Yeah, I did. I don’t want my dick to fall off by the time I’m twenty, Sir,” Juss grouses.

Tom smiles at him. “Good boy. You can call me Tom, you know?”

“Yes, Mr.Rainsborough,” Justin answers flatly.

“You don’t have to defer to me like that, baby.”

“No, Sir.” Justin’s tone brooks no argument.

Justin couldn’t make it anymore clear that he doesn’t want to change their dynamics. He wonders why that is. Tom’s disappointed, if he’s honest with himself. They could still play a game of dominance and obedience in bed, if that was what Justin was after. It got him going, Tom knows. But here, in bed afterwards, Tom would much have preferred if the barrier was lifted. He pulls Juss down on the pillow again and kisses him, slow and sensual, revelling in the taste and smell of him. Right now, the five pills, whiskey, and all the chemicals that came with lovemaking and climaxing, had his anxiety and worries thoroughly sedated for the first time since… he can’t even remember. A truck driving through the wall couldn’t faze him right now. He’s so high and mellow, all his misery is a theoretical thing he can barely recall. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, Sir. That’s the real reason I came home early.” Justin’s hands, finally free to explore, caress his arm and shoulder, scrapes nails through his hair, making him shiver.

“You’ve got a significant other back in SF, sweetheart?” Tom asks, kissing his way down Justin’s throat unhurriedly.

“No, Sir. There are holes that need to be filled and it would be rude of me to deny those who come to me for help to fill them,” Justin jokes with a cocky smirk.

Tom rests his forehead against his clavicle, shoulders shaking in silent laughter. It’s sad, really, because he’s certain that Juss is talking about another kind of hole. The kind that makes it hard for Tom to draw breath in John’s absence. But this madness, the snake biting his own tail, hearts locked in constant heartbreak because the pieces don’t fit and get forced together where they shouldn’t be placed, it’s all kinds of hilarious. God, watching from above, must be favouring drama as His entertainment. He lifts his head to look at Juss, eyelids heavy and heart full of endless affection for the young man whose heart he’s breaking. “Send me their thanks. They’ve made you an even better lover than before. Would you tell me about your conquests?” he says with a soft smile.

“There’s not a shred of jealousy in you, is there?” Justin says with a dissatisfied expression.

“I’m sorry, but covetousness is not one of my bigger sins.” He kisses Justin’s jaw, then meets his gaze again. “I accept my fate and am endlessly grateful for any crumbs thrown my way, but I seldom begrudge others their fortune, even if they come at my expense.” He rolls down to lie on top of Justin’s chest, weaving his fingers together and resting his chin on top of them. “You’re so hot, Juss. Drives me utterly mad. Seeing you today, working your stuff, seducing the people here, set me aflame. It was all I could do, not to grab you and drag you down here with me. Hiding you away from everyone else and make love to you for hours. But the truth is, I’d enjoy watching the show too, if someone else was at your mercy.”

“You have a voyeur kink?” Justin asks, hands caressing up and down his spine.

“Not in so many words.” Tom thinks it over for a bit, trying to put words on it. His face set in a resting smile. He wouldn’t recognise himself in the mirror if he saw himself now. Facial muscles that have been strained for months are relaxed, softening everything about him. “Your tattoos and piercings would count as a kink of mine. It shames me to admit it, but your age would fall into that category as well. Young, unspoilt.” Justin snorts in skeptical amusement. He may have some strong disagreements to that last word, but any damage he’d acquired growing up, would be more easily healed at his age, than later in life. Tom might be ripping up some of those damages by indulging in this. And yet, by all appearance, Justin is healing. Tom goes on. “That I’d enjoy watching isn’t… it has very little to do with kink, and more to do with acceptance. I accept that I do not own anyone, that I have no right to dictate other people’s choices. I’ve also accepted that everything comes to an end. I take what I can get, and if watching from afar is all I can get?” Tom shrugs. “I know how to enjoy that too. It’s better than nothing.”

Justin is quiet for a while, watching him, trailing fingers over his face as if he’s trying to commit it to memory. Tom closes his eyes and just enjoys it. “Are you ever happy?” Juss asks after an eternity.

“I’m happy right now.”

Silence stretches and Tom drifts. Not like he’s falling asleep. He loses grip of time, focused only on immersing himself in the soft touches, the scent, the warmth of Justin, being completely in the moment. 

“How do you feel about me, Sir?” Justin asks.

“I love you,” Tom answers without missing a beat, lost in everything warm and fuzzy he’s feeling.

“But not… not like you love him,” Justin states.

“No,” Tom admits without opening his eyes. There’s no need to clarify who he’s talking about.

Justin’s chest heaves in a massive sigh under him. “I wish you loved me like you love him.”

“So do I, Justin. But you’re here, and he’s never coming back again, baby. Don’t worry about it. I’m at your mercy until this blows up in our faces.”

Justin snorts again, this time with no amusement. He keeps petting Tom though, and Tom is goo in his hands. 

“What did he say to you?” Tom asks, distantly remembering that he nearly had a breakdown worrying about it earlier.

“He wanted to make sure I knew what a morally upstanding man you are,” Justin answers, voice so full of disgusted contempt that Tom opens his eyes and looks at him, lifting his head.

“What?”

“He came to protect your reputation, by letting me know I was more than just a whore to you. And to make sure I knew, you would have sent me to college, even if I didn’t let you fuck me,” Justin spits resentfully with a sour twist to his pretty mouth. 

“It’s true though. I care about you, baby. No favour or gift I give you comes with strings attached. If you think, even for a moment, that this,” Tom gestures between their faces with a finger, “is something you’re obliged to do, forget it. I don’t want anything from you, unless you want it too, okay?” Tom tilts his head, troubled by what Justin’s saying. “And, you know, I think you have it all wrong. I doubt John used those words. But if that’s what you got out of it, I think you got it backwards. When he confronted me about us, he was furious with me. And his main concern was how our relationship would impact on your sense of self-worth and confidence. He cares about you. He doesn’t want you to feel used, and confuse my lust as my only point of affection for you, just because I couldn’t keep it in my pants.”

“ _Ugh_. Whatever. I’m pissed off at you. You say he figured it out by himself. But when he confronted you, you should have denied it. You should have lied. It was blatant when he talked to me, that you had sung like a fucking bird.” Justin’s hands have stilled and he’s scowling. Tom thinks that maybe he made a mistake. Maybe Justin didn’t want this after all. He starts pushing himself up to move away from Justin. He’s not going to push an unwanted relationship on someone just because he wants the spark of life it brings. His resignation must have shown in his face. Justin’s eyes widen in sudden panic. He grabs Tom and pulls him back down on himself, wrapping his arms tightly around Tom’s shoulder. “Where are you going?” he asks, tensely nervous. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

It could have been an absurd question. Where would he go? But then again, technically, Tom could leave him here to go sleep in a guestroom, or even his matrimonial bed. Grace couldn’t forbid him. It would mark an end to his affair with Justin. “You know we have no future together, right? You and me can never be more than this. It has to be a secret, and I’m not cut out for lying. If I’m caught, I own up to my sins. I don’t wish to pull you down with me. You have so much to lose.”

“You have just as much as me to lose,” Juss says, voice shaken.

“Oh hon. I’m already lost. I’m just waiting for the inevitable,” Tom says and rolls them to lie on their side so he can wrap his own arms around Justin and entangle their legs. “You don’t want to throw it all away on a washed out hasbeen like me.” He kisses Justin’s shoulder, cups the back of his head to press his face into his own shoulder, inhales deeply of their combined scent. “You come down here to me, bringing back my will to live, if only for a moment. But this is all I could ever offer. If we’re discovered… I can’t protect you from the consequences any more than I could stop an oncoming truck with my bare hands. If you want this, my door is open. But sweetheart, your future is bright, and I’m so not worth it.”

“D..do you want to end it?” Justin asks uncertainly.

“No. Not even a little bit.” And as things stand, right now he doesn’t. He needs this. This reawakening of appetite. It’s not just about sex. He could have gone to the club if that was it. He hadn’t had a sexdrive, hunger, thirst, or any other of the basic drives needed to sustain a will to live, for months. He’d been holding onto duty and a promise he’d made. Yes he’s high right now. Five pills taken within a far too short time span, constant sleep deprivation, alcohol, and then sex on top of that… he’s fifteen levels of fucked up, and he distantly recognises that. A lot of the things he’s said tonight are hurtful towards Juss, and had he not been as mellowed as he is, a lot of those truths would not have come out.

All in all, he knew this would happen. That Justin would rekindle something within him. He didn’t want to use the young man to keep afloat. But it’s one thing to hope nobody throws in the lifesaver in the water while you’re drowning, and something else entirely not to grasp for it while it’s bobbing beside you. All the sudden, it’s a reasonable sacrifice. And if he’s going to be harsh - Justin’s old enough to make his own choices when it comes to what’s worth the price and not. If he compares to himself, he’s chosen to forsake his own wants and needs every day, since the day Grace told him she was pregnant. He’d ended relationships any time the ultimatum came not to have it be clandestine. Every time they asked for more. Even Stefan and Sam, whom he loved more than anything, had received a ‘No’ when they asked for more. That couldn’t be blamed on age. He was younger than Juss when he fell in love with Stefan. No, it’s time he stopped taking responsibility for Justin’s choices.

“Not even a little bit,” Tom repeats and pulls his head back to look Justin in the eyes. “You have the right to be as angry as you want, but it changes nothing, sweetheart. I warned you, that day in the pool. You know everything will go to shit if we’re discovered. Why John haven’t done anything yet eludes me. But you can be assured that if my family, _our_ family, finds out, this won’t have a happy ending. If you chose to stay, I’ll treasure every moment. And I won’t hold it against you, when you choose not to come anymore. You don’t even have to say anything… just don’t come down here, and I’ll respect that.”

Justin stares at him quietly for a moment, frost-green eyes intense and scrutinizing. Then he grabs Tom’s head and pulls him in for a kiss. It’s the last bit of talking they do for a while. Damned if it doesn’t feel good to be alive. Juss is a true piece of art, and Tom was always a physical worshipper, whether it was a person or an activity. It wasn’t in still moment of contemplation he gave praise to God, it was in this, or scoring a goal on the ice, getting slammed into the board, running a mile, or building a cupboard from scratch. Justin has made his decision. It may be revoked at any time, but until that happens, Tom’s going to cling onto these moments and revel.

Afterwards they lie face to face on their sides, caressing each others’ faces and bodies lazily with soft smiles. The tension is gone from Justin’s face, leaving only contentment.

“This is going to be so bad when we adopt you,” Tom says with a tiny quirk of his lips.

Juss chuckles. “Yeah, no. I can’t say yes to that. I _want_ to, but it’s… it’s… it’d be too wrong, even for me. I’m going with a name change. I know it’s only superficial, but still.”

“Sorry about Grace springing it on you like that.”

Another smile that dimples his cheeks. “No. It was a good surprise. I was worrying that she’d feel like I intruded on a family holiday. Then she went and said that, and I just….” he shakes his head and looks down, eyes getting a bit glossy, pressing his lips together but still smiling. “I’ve never felt that wanted. Not once, have I felt so…” He swallows. “She’s been thinking about it all the time I’ve been away, or she wouldn’t have looked into what options there were. It was a lot to take in, you know? Because your wife and I, our relationship isn’t as straightforward as my relationship with the rest of you.” He curls himself a bit closer to Tom, just letting himself be held. “I hated her, for a while. Hated her from the core of my being, when I found out that she hit you. And you just took it.”

“She had good reasons for it.”

“No, she didn’t. Or she did, like every domestic abuser ever have. I actually get her. Better than you think. It’s harder to understand why someone as pacifistic as you would defend her actions. None of your kids do. They _forgive_ her, but that’s something else. Reason or not, there’s no excuse.”

Tom doesn’t know how to answer that, so he keeps quiet.

Justin seemingly doesn’t need him to talk. After a moment of silence he goes on. “She’s always been good to me. And I know that you and me, that this is a huge betrayal of her kindness. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, and… I’m always waiting for good things to be ripped out of my hands, you know? So I cling to them. I can never hold hard enough, they slip away from me anyway.” Tom kisses the crown of his head, just where the coloured streak starts, and massages soothing circles in his back, sensing that Juss wants to, _needs_ to voice these thoughts. “I never suspected Grace would turn out to be one of those good things too. It fucks me up. It’s like one of those math equations designed to be impossible.” He pauses for another beat. “When I moved in here, I acted like an asshole on purpose. You know, trying her patience, expecting her to kick me out. We had quite a couple of arguments. I pissed her off big time a couple of times. I thought she’d be relieved when I left for college. I never expected her to…. Seriously, I _know_ my looks when I came home were provocative. I know that. But I like myself the best when I look like that and it gives me a confidence boost. Despite that, she was _still_ proud of me, and happy to have me back. I have trouble wrapping my head around it. What have I ever done to deserve _her_ love? And then she started talking about adoption...” He takes a deep breath with a slight tremor to it before he goes on. “Sir. Is she for real? Does she really want me as an actual part of the family?” He looks up and meets Tom’s gaze, eyes filled with puzzled wonder.

Tom smiles. “Better believe it, boy.”

“You know how strange that feels? To be wanted? I have no doubt my parents wanted a child, but they didn’t want _me_.”

“Grace and I, we never saw our children as anything other than individuals we were blessed with the honour to get to know. God granted us the task to raise them, but they’re not our property, nor blank slates to be filled. The soul’s already inside of them when they’re born. I think many parents see it differently, and think they’re somehow entitled ownership and total control. But the truth is, we can’t control who our kids turn out to be, any more than we can dictate the exact look of the flowers we plant in our gardens.”

Justin looks at him, blinks a couple of times, then snort-sniggers. “Wow. Overthink much?”

“Is it not true?” Tom challenges with a grin and a raised eyebrow.

Justin rolls on top of him and straddles him. “You thought like that when you decided to have kids too?”

“I never wanted to have children,” Tom admits. “I only saw the duty part of it. It wasn’t something we decided ahead. But when you hold your child in your arms for the first time… it’s love at first sight, Juss. It’s monumental. Instinct perhaps. I don’t know. It’s just instant and overwhelming love.”

“So… like dogs?”

Tom chuckles in bemusement and strokes Justin’s thighs. “I’m not following.”

“Some people say that dogs don’t really love us, that it’s just instinctive behaviour on their part that makes them act in a way we interpret as love. But if parental love is instinctual, then their love is as valid as the love from a new father.”

Tom bursts out laughing, shaking his head, then nodding. He sits up to wrap his arms around Justin’s waist. “I don’t know how dogs came into the discussion, but yes. I suppose,” he answers, still chortling.

It makes Justin look strangely smug.

“Is this your way of telling me your parents have bad instincts, or are you calling me a dog?” Tom jokes.

Juss sniggers. “Both. I’ll go with both.”

It marks the end of a heavy subject and stirs up playfulness that leads to round three. Afterwards Juss tells him about a couple of his conquests, like Tom had asked earlier. Tom enjoys hearing about it, imagining getting to see Justin in action. Time’s up all too soon. A couple of kisses and Juss leaves. But the feeling that lingers is light, and Tom falls asleep straight away.

He dreams of John. They’re in a big auditorium full of people, sitting front row, fingers entwined on the armrest between them. He’s got that annoying contraption on his leg, keeping everything in place after his upteenth opertation. His crutches are resting between John’s legs. At least he can walk on his own now. The wheelchair only makes him frustrated. How many times wouldn’t he have given up without John’s bullheaded stubbornness? Sitting there, watching John tear their home asunder to adjust it to his condition, without being able to help, had made him want to scream and throw things. Doorways had been widened, ramps had been built, a new kitchen had been installed―one of those you could adjust the height of with a push of a button, that allowed him to cook too. The bath tub had gone, exchanged for a shower with a special stool inside. All these god damned rails everywhere, a lift in the bedroom and furniture getting thrown out. All the fights they had had, because he’d felt like a burden, and couldn’t grasp why John stuck around and let him drag him down. The constant feeling of humiliation, because he couldn’t do what he’d always been able to do, and needed help with everything. To know that some people have it worse is no comfort, only lends guilt. 

But as they say ‘This too, shall pass’. Little by little he’d adjusted. He’d gotten stronger, learned to make up for the uncooperative leg and the deceptiveness of the other. He remembers the feeling of total joy the day he’d gone for a ‘run’ with John, keeping in pace with his wheelchair. The first day back at sea he’d cried from happiness. There’d still been things he couldn’t do, but he and John had found a rapport that enabled them to work together with ease. John, making up for what he lacked, was such second nature to them now that they just did things without a thought. The problem wasn’t the immobility, it was the relapses of pain that came in cycles, incapacitating him completely. Then came Noah’s call, ‘ _Dad, I know this doctor…_ ’

It’s too early to tell how it will work out after pimping himself out to a brilliant doctor experimenting with a new method. Honestly, he isn’t even that bothered by the thought that it may not work out in the long run. If he’d find himself back in the wheelchair again, then so be it.

He squeezes John’s hand and John turns his head to smile at him, eyes warm. That smile still makes him weak at the knees. John’s just as handsome now, crow's feet and hair graying at the temples, as he’s always been. Sometimes Tom calls him Carlsberg, because he was worth waiting for.

The crowd starts hushing as the lights dim and the spotlights are lit up stage. Then Noah enters and he let’s go of John’s hand so they can applaud. His son’s a man grown now. It saddens Tom how jaded Noah’s become over the years. The resentment he has for humanity has dulled the glow in his eyes. Yet his compassion for people, on an individual level, is still intact. On stage you never see any of that jadedness though. He’s a star, drawing crowds on charisma alone.

He’s dated over the years. But anytime he’s introduced a date and Tom had asked if this was it, Noah always shook his head. ‘ _Nope. They’re not the Promised One._ ’ Noah had adopted Neda’s conviction that the vessel that held the soul held no importance. As such, he dated based on personality, not gender, and had chosen to identify as ‘pansexual’. No relationship ever lasted long. Noah still held fast to waiting for ‘the promised one’. Tom had once asked how he knew the woman he was currently dating, wasn’t the one. Noah had looked so tired. He had taken a joint out of his pack of normal cigarettes, lit it, taken a deep drag on it and closed his eyes as he held the smoke in, then let the smoke out in a heavy sigh. ‘ _Because, dad, I already know who it is,_ ’ he’d answered bitterly. ‘ _I’ve known for years._ ’ Tom naturally wondered why Noah didn’t do something about it. ‘ _If I move too soon, our tale won’t have a happy ending. Please, dad. Don’t ask about it. I just got to hold on for a couple of years, then things will turn out alright. God has promised me._ ’

So maybe it wasn’t a mystery why Noah was jaded and too often sought refuge in drugs. Living with constant heartbreak was something Tom could relate to (as well as using chemical help to cope). Luckily Noah had a solid group of people around him who were as devoted to him as he was to God. Not like the people in here, that came to marvel and gawk, (or to defame and vilify), but friends, who dared being honest with him, and didn’t shy away from stopping him from falling too far. He had a supportive family, a protective net that held him when his mission got too hard, the yoke too heavy. Tom believed every word Noah uttered in private, and most he said on stage. He’s proud of his son, drugs or not.

When Tom wakes up, he’s as disoriented as when he’d dreamt of being at sea with John. It felt too real. Sights, smells, sounds. He’s surprised to find his leg working properly when he sits up. There’s just a dull pounding in his knee from over exerting himself. He looks at the clock and is shocked to find it’s almost 3 PM. He thinks of yesterday and waits for the inevitable panic and anxiety. It doesn’t come.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, This song is dubbed the official soundtrack for Tustin at this point of time.
> 
> [YouTube cover with lyrics](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Qx48MOj1x8)
> 
> Or the original track on spotify: [Sam Smith - Stay With Me](https://open.spotify.com/track/62NVyyEBiRxGae3SeB97nl)
> 
> [Lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/samsmith/staywithme.html)


	39. Stolen Moments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Blatant disregard for SPN lore. And other lore too. Can we just say "blatant disregard"?

## December 2014

* * *

**December 18th - 22nd**

He gets to witness a heartbreaking scene. As complicated as everything is, it still warms his heart. A stolen moment he wasn’t supposed to see. Justin’s standing outside of the master bedroom, taking deep breaths, amping up courage. He’s so intent on whatever it is he’s about to do, that he doesn’t even notice Tom come up the stairs. Tom stops a couple of steps down, frozen by the fear and vulnerability in Justin’s expression. Justin shakes himself and knocks on the door.

“Come in,” Grace answers from inside.

Justin takes one last deep breath and opens the door, but doesn’t step inside. “M..m-mom?” he asks, voice nearly quavering.

There’s a beat of absolute silence from inside, then “Yes, sweetie?”

“I was going to go Christmas shopping. I was wondering if you, um, if you’d come with me?”

“Sure. I’d love to. Let me just finish this, and I’ll be right down with you.”

Justin smiles, bright and grateful. “Thanks, mom. I’ll go start the car.”

Tom quickly backs downstairs and hides in the kitchen. He hears Justin skip downstairs, get dressed, and leave the house. He deems it safe to go upstairs and nearly collide with Grace on the upstairs landing. Grace is dabbing her glossy eyes with a tissue carefully, not to ruin her makeup.

“Honey, are you alright?” Tom asks, feigning ignorance.

“I’m fine,” she says and gives him an apologetic little smile. “I’m just touched. Justin just called me ‘mom’,” she tells him. She fans a hand in front of her face. “I’ve got to go now, before I start leaking again. I’m going Christmas shopping with him.” Then she gives him a quick peck on the cheek and hurries downstairs.

Tom honestly has no idea what it means to her, even if he can imagine what a big deal it is to Justin. Either way, he understands that he got to witness something huge, one way or another.

Tom and Noah goes to another sermon that evening. This one is very stilted and fraught in traditions and rituals. There are psalms to be sung and prayers to be recited. Candles to be lit, and gestures to be made. The church is magnificent, with huge stained glass windows depicting various biblical figures. It doesn’t rival some of the European churches Tom’s visited, but it still gives him a great sense of spirituality. This is the kind of church he likes to pray in. For a moment he almost feels like opening his heart and do just that. He doesn’t. But he realises that he feels a bit disappointed about taking a break from these trips with Noah during winter break. Tomorrow will be their last one until after new years.

Having Justin back home brings answer to a question he hasn’t asked Noah, but wondered about. He’s upstairs brushing his teeth for bed when he hears Justin from Noah’s doorway. 

“Oy, Noe!” Justin shouts to be heard downstairs where Noah is. “What the fff―“

” _Justin!_ ” Grace scolds from the bedroom.

“―flop is this shit?” Justin corrects without missing a beat.

“What shit?” Noah yells back.

“This ‘Good God fearing people’ business?”

“It’s an oxymoron, moron!”

Tom chuckles, hearing Grace giggle and Juss mutter incoherently.

Tom spits out the toothpaste and rinses his mouth. Noah comes upstairs. “Okay, so I’m a moron, but I still don’t get it,” Justin says annoyedly.

Noah sniggers. “Because good people have no reason to fear God.”

“That’s it? Then why do you have it written out all big, like it’s some huge thing?” Justin asks.

“Because it is. It’s one of the main problems with our doctrine. You can’t really love what you fear. And we’re being bombarded with reasons why we should fear God, until we close our hearts to Him and just do what’s expected from us without feeling it. It’s slavery, not servitude, and I don’t think that’s what God wants from us. Just think of Matthew 7:21-23, right? So good people have no reason to fear God. Only bad people do. But there’s where it gets complex, because we divide things in black and white and right and wrong, but God can see and judge _every_ part of us, every deed and every thought and every feeling. And with so many variables, he may come up with a different answer than we do, when we scrutinize a person. So it’s a work in progress for me. But basically, my goal is to get people to open up their hearts to God. Not just do his bidding out of fear, and…”

That’s all Tom hears before Noah’s door closes behind the two boys. Tom finds it thought worthy, and mulls on it when he goes down to the den. Of course, any Godly thoughts are wiped away when Justin comes down to him later on. Then it’s all about pagan worship and intimacy. They lay talking for a while afterwards, sated and relaxed, and fall asleep wrapped around each other. Tom may or may not hate the alarm clock that marks Justin’s time to depart. But oddly enough, he has no trouble going right back to sleep.

Friday Jessi comes home. He and Noah come home later than planned for and it’s all Neda’s fault. On their way home they spot Neda, knee deep in snow, standing beside the road again. Naturally, they stop to pick her up. Sh- _he_ gets in with an annoyed expression and buckles his seatbelt. Then he knocks on the inside of the car with an annoyed expression. “This is a dangerous means of transportation. It’s a bother that some people have no sense, and forgoes changing tires. It’s a hassle that walking has gone out of fashion. I do not. Approve,” he says with his trademark odd breaks in his sentences.

Noah and Tom both chuckle. “I’d say walking in this weather is a much bigger hassle,” Tom says. “What were you doing here?”

Neda snorts like the question offends him. “Waiting for you to pick me up. Now go. We haven’t got all day,” he snarks.

Noah sniggers and Tom widen his eyes and share a look with Noah. He gives himself a shake. “Your wish is my command,” he answers with bemused humour. Surly or not, he still likes Neda.

Neda proceeds to give him directions while chatting with Noah (or rather, answering Noah’s chatter) about random events at school. Suddenly, when he’s guided them off the main road and onto another, smaller road, he commands “Stop the car!” with such authority that Tom stands on the breaks. Both he and Noah twists around to look at him, hearts pounding in fright. “This will be enough. You continue down this road you’ll get to Pine Glen. My job is. Done,” Neda proclaims, unfastens his seatbelt and gets out of the car. Then disappears into the dark woods at the side of the road. 

“What the hell?” Noah says, unbuckles his own seat belt and gets out of the car. He calls for Neda, but gets no response. He follows where Neda disappeared, a few steps into the woods, then stops. It’s pitch black outside of the light from the car headlights. Tom opens the glove compartment and takes out a flashlight, then goes outside to follow. Soft snowflakes fall gently to the ground, becoming visible only in the glow of the flashlight. Noah cups his hands around his mouth and shouts. “Neda! Get back here! Where are you? This isn’t funny!”

Tom searches the ground for Neda’s footprints. There aren’t any. Not even where Noah’s standing. Noah looks at him with a worried expression. “Jesus Christ. Where the hell did he go?”

Tom swallows, an odd feeling in his belly, heart pounding in fright. “Maybe he took off running on the road?” he suggests, knowing full well that it’s a lie. Sure, the road is snow free in most places, but Neda had not gone down that way. He knew what he saw.

Noah looks down at where Tom’s sweeping the flashlight along the ground, only seeing the tracks of a hare. He looks up again. “But why would he do that? He’s only wearing that thin jeans jacket. He might freeze to death.”

“Who knows why Neda does anything? It’s her purpose in life to be a little shit, I’m sure,” Tom answers. He’s not really worried about Neda freezing. But he’s disconcerted. This is just…. Just…

“He. What should we do?”

Tom sweeps the area around them one last time, brows furrowed. “I… let’s get in the car and go home.”

“We can’t just leave him,” Noah protests.

“She wanted us to drop her off here. I’m sure she’s alright. Why don’t you call her?”

“Him. He doesn’t have a cell phone.”

“Then we’ll buy one for her. Christmas is coming up after all.”

“ _Him_. Yeah. Yeah, let’s do that.”

They get back in the car, throwing one last look around before ducking inside.

They’re quiet for a while, driving away. They keep going on the smaller backroad instead of heading back to the interstate. This is a longer route, but going back would have been even longer. The silence is uneasy. Noah’s looking out of the side window, biting his nail. After ten minutes of tense silence Noah turns his head to look at Tom. “Neda’s real, right? I'm not just imagining him, right?”

Tom chuckles. “She’s real. Why would you say that?”

“He,” Noah corrects automatically. “Because some people say that I'm mad and delusional when I tell them that God answers my prayers. I… there’s just something strange about Neda. I can’t put my finger on it. Strange things happen around him. Things I can’t explain. I… sometimes I worry that people are right. Maybe I am going mad? I mean, why would God answers _me_? I'm nobody special.”

“Why wouldn’t he answer you? Your faith is strong, and He sees and hears all. He’s not judging us by our earthly status, but by our souls.”

“Yeah, but there must be thousands of people more pious than me, who've committed less sins, who are more likely to have a further reach, getting the message out, and I dunno…”

“Maybe he answers those too,” Tom states simply. “There’s nothing that says you’re the only one He talks to. And the Lord isn’t one to choose the simplest road, or let us go through life without hardship. The bible is full of people who’re made to make sacrifices, who get their patience, endurance, or will power tested. You’ve never asked yourself why the Lord hasn’t just snapped His fingers and instilled every single one of us with an innate knowledge of his will? Or control us on such a level that no scripture is even necessary? You touched upon a solution to that when you explained to Juss why ‘good, God fearing people’ is an oxymoron.”

“Because we can’t truly love God if we’re not given a choice in the matter,” Noah answers like he’s been given a pop quiz. “But why not choose a priest or, I dunno, the Pope, or whatever?”

Tom purses his lips, thinking. “Motivation, I think. Your love for God is very strong, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, so?”

“So is your compassion for people. You’re open to change, and brave enough to admit your own mistakes as well as walk against the stream. Now, what do you think Bonahue’s motivation would be, had God chosen to answer him? He’s a priest, after all. Would he be more concerned with getting the message out? Would he worry about how he’d be perceived, if he suddenly changed his stance? Would he wonder what power or perks he could gain from this? He hates homosexuals, would he be resentful about suddenly having to embrace them to his flock? Would he _believe_ God was really the one answering him, when the message he’s getting goes against everything he’s learned to be the Truth? You don’t have to answer this, son. Just think about it. The Lord is as likely, if not more likely, to answer the homeless child, begging for food, as he is likely to answer someone of the clergy. We’re all his children after all.”

Noah looks thoughtfully at him, then turns his head to stare at the dashboard, biting a nail. It’s a good thing he bites the same way as Tom, just pressing his teeth against his nail lightly, not gnawing, or he wouldn’t have any nails left. “You believe me?”

“Yes.”

Noah sighs. “So do I. I’m certain of what I experience is God’s answer. But you hear enough people calling you delusional, you get that creeping doubt, you know? And then all these weird things happening with Neda...”

“Just hold onto your faith, son. And tell Neda she should try to tone down the pranks.”

“He. Pranks. Right. He’s good at them, I’ll give you that.”

The uneasy mood is lifted when they get home. They’re barely inside the door before they’re attacked by a blond whirlwind, squealing high pitched in delight. Jessi actually lifts Noah up in the air and spins him around, hugging him, then moves on to clingingly hug Tom, before letting go to to grab Noah by the upper arms and stare at him. “Holy shit! What have they been feeding you?! You’ve _grown_ , you goober!” she exclaims and hugs him again, rocking him at the same time.

Noah hugs back, laughing. “Alright, let go now. This isn’t the Folgers commercial,” he says, face crinkled in a huge grin.

“Eww!” Jessi says and pushes him away. “Don’t even joke about it. That’s disgusting. Dad! Tell him!” she says and spins around to face Tom.

Now. Tom would tell Noah not to make incest jokes while hugging his sister, if he wasn’t currently pressing his hand to his mouth to keep from laughing out loud, shoulders shaking.

Noah cackles and Tom loses it at Jessi’s betrayed expression. “Oh my God. Perverts, both of you,” she says before she too begins to giggle. 

Noah slings an arm around her shoulder. “Did you bring me a present from far away? Sorry I didn’t wait up all night for you,” he says and wiggles his eyebrows at her, making her laugh too.

Grace and Juss comes out of the kitchen to see what all the ruckus is about. “What’s so funny?” Juss asks with a bemused smile.

“Coffee,” Tom answers, making his children laugh even harder.

Grace and Juss share a confused look, but all in all it’s a great homecoming. They end up in the kitchen. Jessi talks a mile a minute all through dinner, only stopping to pass the word to Juss, as they retell their adventures together. Tom’s face is aching from smiling and laughing. Since they’re all adults, liqueur is brought out with the dessert, and later the kids snag a bottle of Southern Comfort and a bottle of Bailey’s and go upstairs to barricade themselves in Noah’s room. The only thing that can be heard from inside is a slightly bizarre music mix (since the three of them had made a playlist where they got to choose every third song) and frequent rounds of laughter.

Tom’s feeling great about having them all back. The house is just so full of _life_.

He senses that Grace is troubled by something though. Mostly because she’s doing all of the dishes by hand, rather than using the dishwasher. Instead of offering to help, (that would be taking away something that calms her down) he walks up to her and puts a hand on the small of her back. “You okay, honey?”

“You think we’re doing the right thing? Letting them lock themselves in like that? Drinking? They’re just children…” she worries, scrubbing a pot.

Tom takes his cigarettes out of his pocket, taps one out, lights it, and puts the packet back. “They’re adults, Grace. Jess is twenty in a month. Noah’s old enough to enlist and go to war. We were married with kids at their age. Would you rather forbid them to drink at home and see them leave the house to do it?” he says and takes a deep drag of smoke.

“Of course not. That’s why I didn’t say anything about it. But they’re my little babies. It’s so hard to face that they’re all grown up and have lives of their own now. I still remember them as the little runts they were, as if it was yesterday. I don’t know how you do it, Tom. You’re so calm about it. How can you be so calm about letting go?”

He taps some ashes in the sink, watching the water wash it down the drain. “It’s not easy for me either. But I keep comparing to myself at that age. Plus, I think, trying to limit them too much at this age, might make them rebel. _They_ consider themselves old enough to govern their own lives. If we try to steer them, they’ll lose their trust in us. Then to whom will they turn, when they get in trouble? I’d much rather see Noah getting horribly drunk _here_ , for the first time, than out there, along with who knows?” he says, taking another deep drag of smoke.

“I know, I know, I know. I agree with you. It’s just that… they’re _babies_ ,” Grace answers mournfully. 

He knows exactly how she feels. They’re his tiny toddler babies too. And it’s hard connecting the images of them as young adults. He’s missed so much of their childhood years. He never wanted to be a father, that much is true. Now though… sometimes he wished for it. To get to do it all over again. But this time, be there for the full journey. It wasn’t an active wish. More like a sucking feeling in the gut when he saw a baby, or a toddler. It’s easy to forget that parenthood is mostly fear, angst, frustration, and chores. When he thought back on it, that wasn’t what he remembered.

Grace must have been walking down the same memory lane. She suddenly snorts in amusement. “I remember when I left you alone for a weekend, when I went with my parents to my grandma’s funeral. Noah was, what was it? Two and a half? And when I came home, you’d taught him to say ‘behold’ instead of ‘look’.” She giggles and shakes her head. “I remember I couldn’t stop laughing when he ran up to me, all grubby and exited, holding his hand out, going ‘ _Mommy, behold! A slug!_ ’ Good Lord.” She laughs, Tom laughing along with her, warmth blossoming in his chest, tainted by the sadness nostalgia brings.

“Do you remember when…” he begins to retell a story about Jessi and her yellow rain boots that she promptly wore at every occasion, and would throw angry fits every Sunday when she wasn’t allowed to wear them to church. She put them on, on the wrong feet as often as not, but was totally unbothered by it of course.

One thing leads to another, and soon enough they find themselves snuggled up in the couch, Grace tucked in under his arm, going through old photo albums and reliving old memories. It feels so good, this kind of intimacy with his wife. None of them make any move to make more of it. It’s almost like back in the days when they were dating, when they were friends first and foremost. The wall between them is still there though. This too, is in a way, an old faded memory re-lived or reenacted, tainted by nostalgia. Tom doesn’t think they can ever regain what was lost.

A chaste kiss on the mouth marks goodnight then Tom heads down in the den. He’s calmer than he’s been for a long time. Nevertheless, thoughts of John inevitably come creeping like poison. 

Justin’s drunk when he comes down two hours later. He’s more needy than ever, demanding in a way that makes Tom wonder if something’s happened. To Tom, he’s acting out of character. But Juss, taking aggressively, is a massive distraction, removing any philosophical thought. Afterwards Tom’s forgotten all about it. He’s stupid enough to ask Juss about John again. It pisses Justin off. “Can we not talk about him?” he snaps annoyedly, scowling with his eyes closed. 

“Sorry,” Tom says shamefaced, bending his neck and resting his forehead against Justin’s chest. It’s not fair. Asking Justin about John, when Justin’s in love with him, and he’s pining for John.

Justin’s quiet. He heaves a big sigh after a while. “John showed up at my last competition before the break. I was happy to see him. He congratulated me and I invited him home. We had a couple of beers and talked. His divorce is a bloody battle. He’d thought to be a lot more generous, but it’s turned into an all or nothing deal. Gemma’s taking Cathy’s side most of the time. It’s fucking him up. He’s avoiding anything that might give Cathy something on him, being, I quote, ‘more strait-laced than you’ll ever see me, Juss’. Cathy tried to accuse him of fucking his secretary, which she shouldn’t have done, because it enraged Miah to no end. You know she had a crush on John back when she started working for him?”

“John mentioned it at one time,” Tom answers, soaking up every word he can get.

“Yeah. But John, and he _wanted_ to take a bite of that apple badly, never did. He let her down respectfully, making a point of what a valuable asset she was, and that it would fuck up work for her and all that shit. The truth is that he keeps his hands to himself at work due to self preservation, but Miah was really grateful for how things played out. She’d told her husband the whole story when they met, and John was a guest at their wedding. Anyway, when Cathy made these accusations Miah was pissed the hell off, since it was an insult to her honour, so they’re at war _too_. John’s a well respected, well liked boss. Trying to attack him on that front didn’t do Cathy any good. He’s moved out, staying at some shitty one room apartment until everything blows over. He said that where they’re at now, Cathy is more likely to torch their house than letting him have even part of it.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, but he’s gonna win. I’m telling you, he’s the fucking man of steel. She can’t win. And he was totally cool about it. Tired, yes, but cool. I told him how I was doing and it was nice. But then he sprung it on me. ‘ _Juss, I want to talk to you about something. The affair you’ve been having with Tom.._.’ Pfft. I was fucking blindsided, man. I fucking hate to admit it, but you’re probably right. About him being concerned about me, more than your reputation. I just… fuck. It came out of nowhere. Didn’t suspect he knew for a second before that. So that’s how that went down. I’d prefer if you don’t bring it up again okay? I _don’t_ want to talk about it,” Justin finishes.

“You’re still friends with him?”

“...Yeah. He said nothing to make me think otherwise.”

They leave the subject after that, and talk about other things. Tom falls asleep with Juss tucked in close, spooned against his front. He’s not cut out for sleeping alone.

Saturday when he comes into the kitchen to get his morning coffee all three of the kids are eating breakfast. There’s a bit of a tense silence, but then again, they’re probably hung over all three of them. “You kids have fun yesterday?” he asks while pouring his coffee.

The kids titter in held back giggles so Tom turns to look at them, sipping his coffee tiredly. Their heads are bowed, lips twitching, shoulders shaking occasionally. The very image of guilty. 

“Is this one of those ‘I don’t want to know’ things?” he asks.

Jessi giggles, Noah blushes, and Juss turns around to smirk at him. “Yes, Sir. It is.”

Tom sighs and shakes his head. It probably means they’ve done something stupid that requires a ‘Talk’. He’s so not in the mood for that. He figures, the house didn’t burn down, so he isn’t going to dip his nose in it. Anything needs handling, either Grace can handle it or they can come ask him for help. He takes his coffee with him and shuffles out again.

They all go to the mall to shop for presents. Apart from Christmas, there’s Noah’s birthday coming up. He makes another trip away from the mall, to get Noah’s present, and rejoins the gang later. Being out of the house and in a public place is exhausting. More so, because he keeps running into people he knows, both from the range and the congregation. It’s smile for the cameras and duck away as soon as he can. The relative calm in him, caused by having Jessi and Justin back home, is whittled down to a shred. Too fast, his body is crawling with anxiety, his heart is racing, his head is spinning, and his limbs are full of pins and needles.

He hides in an off limit corridor that leads to a storage room, presses himself to the wall, trying to breathe and doing his best not to bolt. Every cell inside of him tells him to run away as fast as possible. He squeezes his eyes together, stomach roiling, skin getting clammy, cold and overheated at the same time.

_Please, Dear God, help me!_

He flinches in fright at the sound of somebody slurping through a straw next to him.

“Jesus Christ! What are you doing here?”

Neda arches a dry eyebrow at him, then looks down at the collection of milkshakes and slushies he’s got pressed against her chest in the hook of his arm. The other hand is holding a now empty cup of what possibly was an ice coffee. “I’m beginning to appreciate the intake of sustenance. I had not realised the many sensations connected to having taste buds at your disposal. Although, I do say, coriander is _foul_. I may have to tear it out of existence as a gift to mankind.”

Surreal.

Tom stares wide eyed at the youngster at his side. Sweat is making Tom’s T-shirt stick to his body, he’s pretty sure he’s white as a sheet, he’s _this_ close to throwing up, and Neda’s talking about _coriander_??? “Some people consider coriander delicious,” he answers, completely befuddled.

Neda looks up from his bounty with a surprised expression. His stubble has grown into an unkempt short beard, and his hair is at least three shades lighter today than the first time Tom saw him. “Really? I thought it was put in the food to prank the customers.” He huffs and shakes his head. “I suppose it gets to stay then,” he says with a dissatisfied grimace and drops his empty ice coffee container disinterestedly on the floor.

It’s hard to think. Sound seems a bit more distant, and nausea is getting worse by the moment.

Neda picks out another plastic cup and starts sucking on the straw. It looks like some milkshake. “Aaah. Now this, this is something else. Cotton candy. You humans are strange. There is exactly zero percent cotton in this. Why would you name it cotton candy?”

“Because it looks like cotton,” Tom answers. His tongue feels thick and his saliva sticky. It’s hard to talk.

Neda scoffs. “No it doesn’t.”

“Cotton candy is spun sugar that looks like cotton. You’re drinking a cotton candy _flavoured_ milkshake,” Tom explains. He’s getting weak in his knees. Every part of his body is sweating now.

“Ah,” Neda says, pleased. “That explains it. Sugar you say? I approve of sugar. It is definitely worthy of consuming. My brethren would agree. I must promote it to them.” He sucks more on his straw, draining the cup until it’s completely empty, slurping up what's on the bottom, before discarding it to the floor. He suddenly chuckles. “Would you believe the man expected monetary indemnification for these? From _me_? Pffhah. Ridiculous. And he calls himself a Christian.” He shakes his head and picks out a bright blue slurpee.

Tom would ask him if that meant he stole them, but his reality is slipping. He can barely keep himself upright. Suddenly a straw pokes him on the lips. “Drink this,” Neda commands. “Your adrenaline has burned through your blood sugar like a bushfire. You need to replenish it or you will pass out very soon.”

Tom takes a sip of the milkshake and almost gags from its sweet taste. He feebly tries to push Neda’s arm away. “I can’t. It’s too sweet.”

“That’s the point, jackass. Lots of honey and other things your body can take up quickly. You’ll feel better in a few minutes.”

Tom’s eyes are closed and he’s sliding down the wall. The straw against his lips following his descent. A little whine escapes him, and he takes another tiny sip before turning his head away in disgust. Normally he’d find the taste quite good, but now _anything_ would make him hard pressed not to throw up.

“I’ll tell you what’s going to happen if you don’t drink. Your anxiety triggered your fight or flight instinct, thus sending a rush of adrenaline through your body. In your weakened state, along with your pitiful diet lately, and the lack of an escape, you used up most of your blood sugar. This will make you pass out. The next person to come by here, will act as a perfect example of humanity, find your wallet, take your money, your credit cards, and your communication device. He will then leave you here and drop your empty wallet in the bin by the eastern exit. He will be pushed in front of a train three days later when he’s visiting New York, and promptly dragged to Hell. I’m a bit vindictive. It’s in our nature. Back on topic. You will lie here for several more minutes, and the increasingly low blood sugar will damage your brain, since it needs glucose to function. Luckily, a young retail clerk will find you while running to the storage room behind us. She will call 911 and stay with you until they come. Unlucky for her, she left her post in the middle of Christmas rush, and will get fired because mankind is made of greed and _shit_. I would of course, make it up to her, since I’ve been very fond of you since you were born, despite you not remembering any of our talks. And your purpose will be fulfilled even with the damages you’d sustain before help arrives. But. It would be so much simpler if you’d just drink this.”

Tom’s so confused at the moment that the only thing he gets from that rant is ‘Not drinking = bad, drinking = good’. His heart is racing. All he wants to do is curl into a ball and rest for a bit until the nausea and sweating has subsided. He puckers his lips to grab the straw, then manages to suck tiny, tiny sips of the sickly sweet concoction.

“Yes. Good. That’s my boy,” Neda praises. Tom can hear him slurp on another straw and the sound of yet another container being discarded to the floor. His voice changes to scolding. “You almost deserved not getting any help, you know? You did this to yourself. You’re very aware of your limits and yet you keep pushing them.”

Tom’s clawing to grasp a thought, a question barely formed.

“No,” Neda answers tiredly. “You don’t have diabetes. Nor are you running any risk of getting it. Low blood sugar can occur anyway. And you’ve had that problem earlier in your life too. Remember Vancouver? But Lassarette kept an eye on you and made sure you had a snack any time you got grumpy. Then you learned to carry snacks on you and eat one anytime someone called you an asshole. The dietist your team had was an idiot.”

Tom dimly remembers. The whole team had been made to change their diet. He’d gotten mood swings and heat spells, but a teammate, Lassarette, had fed him snacks any time his personality altered. Back in Germany he’d had similar problem for a while. But a bottle of coke helped.

“There you go.” More slurping. Neda’s bottomless. Tom’s struggling to get his drink down and Neda’s downing enough for four people. It seems to help though. He no longer feel like he’s about to lose consciousness at any second. Breathing and heart rate is stabilising. “It was supposed to be you, you know? The combination of soul and the vessel holding it is so important. There’s a million little factors. There are all these souls that could do the job, either locked in a vessel without the Sensitivity, or lacking in faith. Sure, Father could easily fix that. But that’s not who He is. He likes the complexity of His creation. And now that the Sword, the Light, the Healer, and the rest of the big guys are all at His side again you’re just going to have to cope with their whims. This would have been such a smooth ride if it was you. But I had to avert an ant crisis in a house in Bogota, and left you to be guarded by a brother. When I came back, a giant misstep was already made, altering the necessary future. On top of that, our second option got ripped out of existence 2011. Not just the baby girl in question, but the whole bloodline. Hence, we had to go back to your bloodline and your son. I must say, well played by the Sword. Well played indeed,” Neda says, voice full of admiration.

Tom opens his eyes and looks at Neda, utterly bewildered. He’s exhausted to the core, but no longer feels as over heated and isn’t sweating anymore. “Ant crisis? How can ants cause such a crisis to humans it needs your interference?”

Neda scoffs and gives him a chastising scowl. “It’s the other way around, you vain fool. I swear, every species is as vain as yours, thinking it’s all about them.” He drains yet another slushie and drops its container along with three untouched ones on the floor. “Come on. You’re fit to walk. Let’s get you to the car so you can rest.”

“You shouldn’t drop trash on the floor like that,” Tom informs him. “Some poor worker will have to clean that up.”

“What do I care about the petty woes of a slothful human? I’m here trying to prevent the extinction of mankind, and you’re resisting me every step of the way, all of you,” Neda says with a contemptful expression. He grabs a hold of Tom’s arm and heaves him up on unsteady legs with surprising strength. “There. Let’s go.” He puts one of Tom’s arms around his shoulders and supports him with the other, then guides them away from the corridor.

When they get to the milling crowds, people somehow leave space for them to walk. Tom recognises several faces, but nobody looks at them, no matter how close they get. “I’m hallucinating, aren’t I?” Tom asks when Neda grabs a handful of wrapped candy right in front of the salesman in a candy booth, and puts them in Tom’s pocket, without the seller giving them a second glance.

“It seems plausible to you, so let’s go with that,” Neda agrees. “Eat these when you get similar symptoms in the future. Granted, it could just be a regular panic attack, but there’s no harm eating a sweet just to be safe. I’d recommend carrying honey. It can be smeared on the gums for a quick absorption in the bloodstream. But I believe you’d find it inconvenient?”

“I’m not walking around with a jar of honey on my person.”

“It was just a suggestion,” Neda mutters. The closer they get to the car, the harder it is to keep seeing Neda as a young man. “That’s because you’re getting back to yourself,” Neda explains as if she’s reading his mind. “But we agreed you’re hallucinating, so, I’m not real. WooOOooo,” she says, widens her eyes and releases her grip on his wrist to waggle her finger in front of his face in a ‘mystic’ gesture.

Tom’s giggling the rest of the way to the car.

He wakes up in the back of the SUV when the kids get in. He’s a bit groggy and has a headache. “Dad. Were you sleeping in the car?” Noah asks from the seat row in front of him. 

“Oh my God! That's so embarrassing,” Jessi declares from the passenger seat up front. 

Justin looks at him over the backrest, sitting beside Noah. “You okay, Sir?”

“I'm fine,” Tom answers and sits up. “I had my blood sugar dropping on me and didn't notice on time.”

Noah digs into his pocket and Jessi into her purse at the mention of low blood sugar. Jessi fishes up a Snickers and Noah holds out a packet of dextrose to him. “Here. Take one. They help. I get drops like that all the time,” Noah informs him. 

“Me too,” Jessi says. “Never go anywhere without a snack.”

“Thanks, but I'm okay now. Had a milkshake with honey and salted caramel I think. How come I didn’t know this about you?”

Jessi and Noah share a look. “Um. I dunno. It’s no big deal. The first time I felt it happening the school nurse pin pointed it straight away. Then, the same day, Marcus fell into a puddle of mud and I kinda forgot to mention it,” Noah says.

“I don’t even remember my first time,” Jessi admits. “I think Noah told me to eat sugar, and that was that. It’s not like cramps or anything.”

Tom heaves a heavy sigh and look up on the car roof. Kids. They never get their priorities straight. “I had the weirdest dream just now. God and the archangels playing some sort of chess with mankind, religious ants having a crisis in Bogota, and whole family tree getting ripped up by the roots, and I don’t know what. Nothing made sense.”

“Woah. Sounds awesome. I wish I had dreams like that,” Noah grins.

“Be careful what you wish for. I had these kind of dreams all the time as a kid, ants not included,” Tom says. “It makes you doubt your sanity.”

“I’m not 100% sure I believe in angels,” Jessi butts in. “God, yes, obvi. But angels? What’s the point?”

“What’s the point?” Juss says, sounding personally offended. “What’s the points of any of us existing? Why wouldn’t there be…”

Tom closes his eyes and tunes out the ensuing discussion. He doesn’t even realise he falls back to sleep before Juss nudges him awake and tells him to fasten his seatbelt. Grace is in the driver’s seat by then. After putting his seatbelt on he lays down on the seat. The blessing of owning a family car. He’s bone tired. He sees Justin’s hand come creeping in the crack between the seat and the car door. Only the fingers can reach back. The kids are discussing sneakers, intent on their own thing. It’s stupid and risky, but since his arm is already pointing in the direction of the back of Justin’s seat, he hooks his fingers with Justin’s. It’s absurdly soothing. He remains in the gray area between wakefulness and sleep the rest of the way home, while dinner is being bought through a drive through. Lady luck favours him, and nobody notices the tiny covert gesture of affection. Jessi gives him a hug and a worried look when they get out of the car. “You okay, daddy?”

“Yes, Pumpkin. I’m fine, just exhausted.”

It’s little things like that, that makes him realise how much he’s missed Jessi too. He treasures these moments. It doesn’t matter that he has to lie through his teeth. Seriously. ‘Daddy’ doesn’t go nap in the car on a shopping trip unless it’s serious. It doesn’t matter that Jessi is a full grown woman now. She’s still daddy’s little girl in yellow rain boots, princess dress, and chocolate (that she swore Noah ate) smeared all over her face. He loves her endlessly.

The only good thing about the blood sugar drop is that he’s starving. He eats with good appetite, listening in on the conversation during dinner, then takes care of the dishes. He even manages to handle the laundry. His energy is fast running out. He takes a shower, washing off the dried sweat from his attack, then heads down in the den to listen to some music, only to fall asleep again.

When Justin comes down that night Tom thinks something has happened. Something is definitely wrong. Justin’s wearing leather cuffs on both wrists and ankles and is carrying two chains. That in itself doesn’t signal that something's wrong. But Justin wants him to be rough, a lot rougher than usual. He’s aggressive in his demands, any shyness vanished. “Come on, fuck me! Pound me harder! Fucking hell, Sir, go deeper!” He has fight in his eyes and kisses like his life depended on it. At one time, when Tom has him him bent in half, his hands behind his back, and the chain connecting his ankles hooked behind his neck, immobilizing him, he demands “ _Slap me, hard_.”

Tom stops. “No.” He pulls out carefully, looking down on Juss with concern. “Juss, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Come on, don’t stop,” Juss whines. “Please. I need this.”

Yeah. Like Tom needed what he searched for at the club. “Baby, I’ve told you, I don’t like to hurt my lovers. I can do it, to an extent, in a playful manner for the purpose of pleasure. But you’re not looking for pleasure, you’re looking for punishment, and I can’t do that,” he says, stroking Justin’s flanks soothingly.

“No I’m not. It’s just a game, Sir. You’re projecting.”

Ouch.

It’s true, by all means. He’s looking down in a mirror currently. Something’s happened recently that made Justin’s sense of self worth plummet from one day to another. He remembers thinking something was wrong yesterday too. Justin’s definitely carrying a regret and wants to be punished for it, get confirmed that he’s worthless. Which he’s not. “I won’t play that game with you, sweetheart. But I will listen if you want to talk,” he says and scoots back a bit.

“Holy shit,” Juss mutters with an eyeroll. “I said, nothing’s wrong. I’m sorry for pushing you, but could you _please_ come inside of me again? Please? I want you close,” Juss says, going from frustrated to pleading, wiggling down closer again. 

Closeness is the last thing Juss is asking for. But there’s no way he’s going to talk. Tom can feel the wall he’s put up. Tom hesitates. _He’s_ the one wanting to be close.

Juss may be trussed up like a roped calf, but he’s not really immobilised. _He_ was the one who placed the chains were they are now, and it takes only one swift move of his dexterous body to untangle himself. He pushes his legs further towards his shoulders, relaxing the chain behind his neck to release it from his head, and in the same motion moves his hands under his ass forward, and moves them up over his legs to free them. Tom finds himself tugged down into a kiss, the chain connecting Justin’s wrists looped around his shoulders.

He’s a weak man. It doesn’t take long to melt him back into ‘submission’. Afterwards, when Justin’s curled into his arms, fast asleep, Tom worries. Still, it doesn’t take too long to fall asleep.

Sunday’s a bit of a mess. Justin ‘cleans up’ to go to church, donning a suit, removing piercings, and colouring his hair streak to match the rest of his hair. (It proves to be temporary, and he goes to wash it away the moment they get home.) They’re almost late for the sermon, but afterwards Noah stirs up a fuss just by being there. Tom waits in the car, watching Noah slowly trying to make his way to the car, Neda (who wasn’t present _in_ church) and David acting as his bodyguards, backed up by Justin. 

He also sees Cathy and Miah, and watches them pass by each other. Cathy lowers her eyes when Miah comes near and Miah looks at Cathy with unbridled hatred. Just as Miah passes Tom can see her face screw up into something ugly as she says something to Cathy. It looks like she’s saying ‘whore’. So that part of what Juss told him is definitely true.

When they’re all in the car Jessi speaks up. “What is going on, Noah?”

“Nothing.”

Jessi turns around to look at her baby brother incredulously. “Nothing? That woman _asked you to bless her baby_!”

“I’ll tell you when we get home,” Noah mutters.

This time Tom and Grace isn’t there when the conversation goes down, only Justin is, since it takes place in Noah’s room. But for the rest of the day Jessi sing songs “I toooold you sooo,” at odd moments and Noah is grumpy.

They clean the house for Christmas and in the afternoon Noah seeks refuge from his teasing sister in the den with Tom. They’re watching some bullshit movie at first, but then Noah sighs. “Dad. Can you take me to the mall? There’s something I need to buy.”

It’s not like Noah can’t drive there by himself, but Tom doesn’t think it’s only about forgetting a present. He’s starting to develop a feel for Noah’s ‘I need to talk’ vibes. After all, they haven’t had their private moments in the car for a couple of days and Tom counts those as good moments to look forward to. He was right. They’re barely out of the driveway before Noah starts. “I _knew_ this would happen! Jessi’s such a little bitch. Why can’t a guy just change his mind without getting it shoved down his throat?” he complains.

“Jessi’s mean to you?”

“No,” Noah says mopily. “Just smug. Like I wasn’t ashamed enough already. I mean, come _oooon_. You get new information, you re-evaluate a situation. That’s how it works. Would it be better if I just cling on to old statements not to lose face? _No_! It wouldn’t,” he protests his own question angrily. “She should know better. Mocking me for being wrong before hardly makes me open to admit being wrong the next time it happens. I mean. I will. But not everybody would. Being teased about it. Where’s the live and let live attitude?”

“She’s giving you hell because your new information came directly from God?” Tom asks.

“Nope.” Noah mock-imitates her, “‘God-Schmod. Who cares? I was right. You should have listened to me. I’m your older sister and I know best. _Nya, nya_.’”

Tom’s pretty sure that isn’t a direct quote. He’s heard his kids tease each other too often to believe Jessi sounded _that_ condescending and disdainful. Smug, yes. Totally. Noah’s just pissed. On the topic, Noah’s just as bad if he gets one up on Jessi. So Tom patiently listens to Noah rant, until his son has calmed down. The biggest difference between the siblings is that Noah’s temper cools down pretty quickly and Jessi could hold onto a grudge until end of days if she wanted.

There’s just as many people in the mall as before, but luckily, Noah’s like a homing bird, going to an electronics store to buy a pre-paid phone for Neda. When Tom gets what he’s buying, he pays for it instead. The kids have allowances, but this accounts as a must-have after that odd incident the last time, and Tom feels a strange responsibility for Neda.

On the way home, Noah’s forgotten all about his teasing sister. “Dad, do you think it’s possible to know you’ve found ‘the one’ just by a kiss?” he asks curiously and peers at Tom with big eyes.

“Aside from the fact that I personally don’t believe there’s just a single right ‘one’, are we talking about kissing a stranger or someone you’ve known for a while?” Tom counters.

“Does it matter? Like, what’s the difference, you think?”

Tom purses his lips. “I suppose it’s possible. But kissing a stranger, you’d get a fairly good idea if you’re going to work out sexually. For me, the kissing part is very important. It’s like―“

“Souls touching,” Noah interrupts. “If they’re open to it. Some aren’t, and it’s just nice. And others have their walls down and it’s… it’s so intimate. Addicting,” Noah says with a far off expression.

Tom laughs. “Seems you’ve inherited one of my vices,” he sniggers. “But I wouldn’t know if you could tell if a stranger is the one just by kissing them. Someone you know already, and like, that’s another matter. One kiss can take it from a slow, mellow burn, to a roaring fire in just one go.”

_John. John. John. John. John._

_Dammit! Why can’t I stop thinking about him? It’s been months._

Noah looks seriously at him for a moment, then turns to stare out the side window, biting his nail. Tom’s too lost in his own mind to wonder what Noah’s thinking about. The silence lingers for a while before Noah suddenly perks up. “Hey, did Jessi tell you about…” Noah starts and retells a totally hilarious story that Jessi for apparent reasons hadn’t deemed fit for parental ears. Tom’s grateful for the distraction.

Having the whole family gathered is hard. It’s hard, mostly because the same things that perks Tom up, and makes him happy, are things that becomes too much, and makes him feel suffocated. Being with Grace this much makes him want to snap at her. Yet she’s done nothing wrong, nothing to provoke that response. He just can’t stand her company for long durations of time these days. And Jessi is **SO FULL OF ENERGY** it almost sends him panicking at times. Then the constant teasing between Noah and Jessi, is as hilarious as it is grating. And Justin’s a sore spot, reminding him of everything he can’t have in his life, challenging his acting skills. It’s all draining and invigorating all at once. It’s just… it’s like getting every sense pounded until it reaches the breaking point. He retires early.

Justin acts out of character during the night, keeps closing his eyes, refusing to look at Tom during sex. When Tom stops, and switches to just holding him, caressing him soothingly, he doesn’t protest. He gets a little panicky if Tom makes a move to withdraw, but doesn’t want to talk. Tom can’t go back to sleep once Juss leaves at five o’clock, Monday morning. He tosses and turns, worrying. He doesn’t think it’s about him, he just wonders what happened. Justin’s not alright. That is plain for him to see. On top of that, his leg is killing him. At seven he gives up and goes upstairs. He downs three painkillers straight away, both to stave off the anxiety and to dull the pain. He makes coffee enough for the rest of the family, but doesn’t really feel like staying there to keep up appearance in case anyone wakes up. He pours himself a cup of coffee and heads for the den. Walking through the hallway he hears the unmistaking scraping sound of somebody shovelling snow outside. He stops dead, squeezing his eyes together, grimacing. He can’t, _can’t_ , in good conscience go down in the den and laze around, knowing that someone is outside working their ass off, trying to clear the snow from the driveway.

He sighs in defeat and hangs his head. Why is anyone so chipper to be up and about at this time in the morning. The kids are school free, for God’s sake!

Well. Nothing to do about it except for downing the coffee, brush his teeth, get dressed and get to work. Anything but that would just add crushing guilt.

He dons his winter clothing and takes the way through the garage, since he finds no shovels inside the main entrance door. Taking a shovel, he steps outside just to find the job nearly finished. An even bigger surprise is to find that it’s Justin and _Neda_ who’re currently shovelling the last snow out of the way. Some parts of the cleared paths are already covered in a thin layer of newly fallen snow.

Tom stands and watches Justin drop his shovel, bend down to make a snowball, then spin around to hurl it straight at the back of Neda’s head.

It’s a bullseye hit.

Justin cackles and claps his hands. Tom burst out laughing too at Neda’s shocked, mortally offended expression. “Shame on you, Juss! Attacking a poor, unsuspecting woman like that!” Tom calls out with a broad grin. _That_ makes Justin double over laughing. Tom sees his chance, bends down and scoops up snow to quickly make a snowball. He takes aim and throws just as Juss straightens up and opens his mouth to retort.

The loose snowball explodes in Justin’s face. Tom whoops triumphantly and Juss sputters and shrieks at the snow finding its way in under his clothing.

Tom drops his shovel and runs to Neda’s side, grabs her shoulder and pulls her down behind a big pile of snow. “Quickly, make snowballs, before he retaliates,” Tom says, excitement thrumming through his body. He makes another snowball and throws it, then ducks down behind the pile again.

Justin curses. “It’s on! It’s fucking on!”

Neda’s squeezing a snowball with a determined, angry expression. Tom lays his hand on her wrist to stop her. “Jesus Christ, no. Not like that. You’re turning it to ice. It’ll hurt him.”

“That is. The point,” she says, jaw set firmly.

Tom chuckles bemusedly. “No, no, no. That’s not fun. You need to make them loose. If― _duck_ ―they hit they should fall apart on contact, only causing discomfort,” he explains, ducking and pulling Neda down without breaking stride.

“Ah. I see. This is practising for battle,” Neda declares contentedly, like she hadn’t understood it was all a game before, and drops the ice ball she’s been making.

Justin heard her. “ _Practising_? This is fucking war!” he calls out.

Tom pops up and throws a ball, hitting him on the shoulder. “Are you sure? Seems to me you need to practise!” Tom taunts.

The noise wakes the rest of the family up, and one by one they come out and join in. Neda, Jessi, and Tom on one side, Grace and Noah on Justin’s side. Tom has a blast. They all get snow everywhere. Sitting still in one place just isn’t possible. They run around, throwing snowballs, pulling each other down to shovel snow on each other’s faces, until their clothes are soaked through, their hands frozen, and they’re out of breath from laughing.

Neda joins them inside, gets to borrow the shower to heat up and dry clothes to dress in afterwards. He’s barely in there for five minutes before he emerges, clean shaven, and has both Jessi and Juss cooing about his looks. Once they’re all warm and dry, Grace makes hot cocoa and scones. Tom’s high again by then. It’s strange how you keep lowering your bar for what you think you can and can’t do in front of your family. He still does his best to hide the fact, but he thinks they should notice. They don’t. None of them react as if anything is out of order with him. He reflects that maybe this is how they see him - relaxed, smiling, and making stupid dad jokes. It’s a shame it takes abusing prescription drugs to bring him to the state where his family considers him to be himself.

Justin flirts shamelessly with Neda whenever Grace leaves the room. Tom finds it both hot and hilarious. Hilarious, because Neda feigns obliviousness despite Juss getting more and more blatant. It frustrates Juss to no end. Getting no reaction peeves him more than outright rejection would have. Tom wonders if Juss has come out to Noah, or if this is his way to come out. Anytime Juss amps up the charm, Noah watches him with an unreadable expression, hiding behind his cocoa. Juss calls Noah ‘brother’ almost more often than he calls him ‘Noe’. It’s like he’s trying to get reaffirmed that Noah really wants him as a brother. Whether he’s out or not, he needn’t have worried. Noah’s just as happy to have him around. 

The whole day follows the same lighthearted pattern, giving Tom one of those perfect days that begins with a smile and ends with one. And when Juss squirrels down his stairs after everyone’s gone to sleep, whatever had been bothering Juss seems to have been resolved too. They make love, sweet and unrushed, then lay talking until eyelids are too heavy to keep open. Tom falls asleep with Justin’s arm around his waist and his warmth against his back. He sleeps so soundly that he doesn’t even wake up when Justin leaves.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who didn't get the [Foglers reference.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z5Ir6CzxKl4)


	40. BONUS: *Crossing The Line*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Bonus Chapter:** The night of Jessi's homecoming, she, Noah, and Justin barricade themselves in Noah's room with a bottle of Southern Comfort and a bottle of Bailey's. What could possibly go wrong? (Justin POV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who aren't interested in the kids and their lives, feel free to skip this chapter. Nothing happens that concerns Tom in any way we haven't already seen.
> 
> I was planning to put this after the next chapter, but changed my mind since the order really doesn't matter and I have zero patience. As soon as I'm finished writing something I go "YES! TAKE THIS! READ **ALL** THE THINGS!" and try to fling it out on you. So. Enjoy. Or, you know. Suffer? Depends how you see it. It clears out some question marks from last chapter though.

**December 18th - 22nd, 2014**

“Come on, Justie. _Do it_ ,” Jessi urges, giggling where she lays on her stomach on Noah’s bed, holding herself up on her elbows, grip on the almost empty Southern Comfort bottleneck, resting her chin on it. The three of them are pretty damned drunk by now. Southern Comfort and Bailey’s have seen to that.

The suggestion she whispered to him thirty minutes ago is a bad idea. It’s a monumentally bad idea, as bad ideas go. At least, that’s what he thought then. Not that he hasn’t had, and executed, numerous bad ideas before. Both on her behalf as well as urging her to do stupid shit, preferably by leading with example. Fire meets gasoline. That was them. If Mr and Mrs.Rainsborough knew half the shit they got up to back in SF, they’d forbid Jess to ever see him again, and probably take him for a swim wearing concrete boots. Even Mr.Rainsborough. _Especially_ Mr.Rainsborough, come to think of it. That’s why he shouldn’t be doing stuff he and Jess were doing, when they chicken race each other to follow stupid impulses. And that’s why he shouldn’t be doing what he was fast gearing up to do.

The problem is, (intoxication not included) that he owes Jess this one. He knows how much she’s fretting about what her family will think if they knew what he had made her do. Not by force, oh no. You couldn’t force her to do anything she didn’t want to do. But she was very suggestible. All she needs is a little gentle encouragement and ensuring that he would respect her as much as he always had, and he could get her to do almost anything. So, he did. It was widely believed amongst their friends, that they were fucking like rabbits behind closed doors, despite their insistence that they were just friends. They weren’t. They hadn’t had sex. (Not exactly, anyway.) Many thought they were an item, and they were referred to as JJ or the Js. But romance wasn’t their attraction for each other. 

Jessi wants leverage. Get something on Noah, so should he ever find out, she can point at this and say that he is just as bad. (Which he isn’t.)

He understands leverage.

He’s got more dirt and blackmail material on people than anyone could know. He’s a master of taking sneaky photos, sound recordings, and videos. He can’t really stop himself from taking them. Even when he’s got no reason to want to defend himself or harm his target. So, naturally, when he’d orchestrated Jess’ first kiss with a girl, photos were taken. And that was just the beginning of his steadily growing collection of incriminating photos and videos of her. And very little of that had been filmed in secret. Like he’d said - she was suggestible, and trusted him. No nudity though. _Yet._

Not that blackmail always worked. It required that the opponent feared his secrets being uncovered. It didn’t work on John, when he showed up, professing to know what he’d been up to with Mr.Rainsborough. Naturally his lizard brain had taken over, reacting in defense. But when John had looked through the files of himself on the phone, jaw ticking and eyes hard, he hadn’t reacted like predicted. The videos of John and Jess? ‘ _Tom already knew this went on. I told him straight away. Should you release these, you’ll lose Jessi as a friend._ ’ And the pictures of him and Tom? ‘ _You’d be destroying his life, as well as the rest of his family, who welcomed you with open arms. If you’re so keen on turning on the only people who love you without prejudice, and prove what everyone else said about you is true, go ahead and send these to my wife. She’ll be delighted, and probably be able to make sure I walk away with squat in the divorce._ ’ John had even sent two pictures to himself before handed the phone back. ‘ _Think of what I said before you pulled this crap on me, Juss. Because it’s important. I think highly about you, despite what you just tried to do. I understand why you do it. But you can’t win without self-sabotaging. Drop this bullshit, and I’ll forget all about this, for the sake of our continued friendship. If not? Well, two can play that game, Juss._ ’ 

He knew he’d lost then. John is fucking superman, fearing nothing. Honorable, dependable, nice. Scratch honorable. That last thing? Before they parted? There was no honour in that. That was John showing he had sides that were way too close to his own darker sides. He recognises jealousy-driven actions when he sees them. And what John had said was nothing if not possessive, a stab and twist the knife. He’d said goodbye, started to walk away, whirled around and crowded up close, emphasising their height and size difference, full challenge and dark eyes. ‘ _Tommy’s in love with me. With_ me _. You know it, I know it. Who do you think will win if you don’t back the fuck off?_ ’ He hadn’t even raised his voice. Hadn’t needed to. Then he’d leaned in close by his ear, voice lowering further, and said ‘ _I’ve got nothing to lose…_ ’ John’s I-dare-you smile before he walked away? He was fucked if he tried to get between John and Mr.Rainsborough, and he knew it. 

It had been a shock to come home to discover that John wasn’t here, or that Mr.Rainsborough still was. Because that showdown? John must have warp-speeded through his gay panic and straight into Gollum ‘My Precious’ possessiveness. Yeah, he wouldn’t chance making himself an enemy out of John. That doesn’t mean he isn’t going to capitalise on every possible moment he could get with Mr.Rainsborough until John deemed fit to come back and chase him off with his tail tucked between his legs to cry into his pillow. But the whole Mr.Rainsborough thing is the reason why what he’s about to do, is an abysmal idea.

It annoys him to no end that Jess wants him to do this. Mostly, because for all her bluster about ‘If I was bisexual or lesbian, I’d come out to Noah first,’ she still denied that she is bisexual. Which she is. But no. She’s still holding onto that she’s ‘just experimenting’, and therefore there’s no need for her to come out, right? _Wrong!_

Not that she can force him to do this. He’s immune to her charms, her temper tantrums, her threats and bargains. But they’re best friends, and he feels he owes her this. Even though it will mean she’ll get a compromising picture of him. Because she’s going to take a pic of it. Or film it. She’s currently reaching for her phone, to prove his point.

He raises from the chair, swaying a little.

Now see, he knows this is a bad idea. Not just because he’s stupidly in love with Noah and Jess’ father, but because Noah is the closest thing he’s ever had to a brother. Not that he knows what it’s like to have a sibling. And he could argue that they aren’t related, but that’s not the point. He could also argue that he doesn’t see Noah that way. Only, now, when he’s drunk and a fair bit horny, he kinda does. He just don’t want to see him that way. He’d much rather be the big brother Noah proudly presented him as when he came home. That had been a real slayer. He’d dressed up the way he felt the most comfortable, which equalled totally unforgivably inappropriate in Pine Glen, hyperventilated in the car for five minutes, thinking of just turning around and never coming back, then scraped together enough courage to swagger through the door to the house that had been presented to him as a ‘home’. Noah’s face when he saw him, despite makeup, bow in his hair and everything… all that joy and pride, just for _him_. Fuck but he’d wanted to cry. ‘ _Everybody, this is my brother, Justin,_ ’ he’d said, _beaming_. Like he was someone to be proud to be connected to.

But he’s trash, because he doesn’t know how not to be. And he’s got low self control and with enough alcohol even the most deplorable ideas seem brilliant.

“Come on, Justie,” Jess urges again. “What are you waiting for?”

“What? What’s he gonna do?” Noah says from his place leaned against the wall, wearing a curious, bemused frown. He’s started to fill out that lean frame more. He’s one of those people you envy because they don’t have to work out to keep a fit looking body. And when they _do_ work out, they have a rockin bod in no time. 

He smirks at Noah, raising an eyebrow teasingly. Noah looks from him to Jess and back, starting to look a bit worried despite the smile. He has a lot of stuff going for him. There’s no denying that. The whole family does. Even Grace. But Noah has so many qualities that reminds him of Mr.Rainsborough, that it’s not funny. It’s dangerous territory. “Who, me?” he says and puts a hand to his chest, playing innocent.

“Yeah, you, asshat. What are you up to?” Noah sniggers, trying to hide the worry in his eyes. He knows they’re up to no good. How could he not, when Jess giggles like a moron on the bed.

Thing is, Noah’s not as innocent as people believe. Out of parental supervision, with people he’s comfortable with, or at parties, he’s just like any other teenager. He drinks whatever is placed in front of him, takes on stupid challenges, smokes (even weed sometimes, unlike his big sis), and indulges himself with girls. Jessi said she’d kissed a lot of guys before college. She’d kissed four. Noah on the other hand, couldn’t go to a party without ending up liplocking with someone. He’d kissed _a lot_ of girls. Okay. He’s not like any other teenager. Or adult for that matter. He has something that Justin totally lacks when he’s drunk. That most have in small dosages. He’s got the self control of a fucking saint. (Maybe it goes with chatting with God?) He cuts himself off as soon as he figured he’d had enough booze or weed. Even when high, he could take one cookie and leave the rest. As for making out with girls, he could kiss them for hours, but his hands never strayed, even when you saw him getting a boner. And if their hands strayed he’d grip them by the wrist and remove their hand. He allowed no under-the-belt action whatsoever, drunk or not. 

Only once had he see Noah go further. Kissing his way down the girl’s clavicle, opening her blouse, pulling down the edge of her bra to suck her nipple into his mouth. Even in this shithole town teenagers did what teenagers did. Sex happens. Even on the couch in the midst of a party. Even if it ended up with the girl dubbed a slut and a whore afterwards, while the guy got high fives in the locker room. But not Noah. Oh no. There’d been a moment where his feverish eyes had gone wide, mouth open and panting around her breast, while she was moaning and grinding against him in circular motions. You could practically see him thinking ‘What the fuck am I doing?’ before he buttoned up the girl’s blouse again, gently pushed her off him and said something, shaking his head. Fuck, that had pissed her off, even if Noah didn’t seem to reject her fully, just did a ‘here's my limit, don't cross it’. 

Jess said he’d been a girl magnet since the day he started high school, he just wasn’t very interested unless it was the right time and place. And before he got famous, it was mostly ‘good girls’ who chased after him. He didn’t have the ‘problem’ of girls offering their pussy on the go. Unlike Noah, he didn’t consider it a problem, but a perk.

He’ll admit to be a slut. He’s not sure he would be so keen on fucking around if the man he’s in love with would reciprocate those feelings. Actually, he’s pretty sure he’d be totally faithful despite long bouts of separation if he could just have…. It’s no use thinking about it. Mr.Rainsborough is a lost cause.

He saunters up to Noah with a sly smile and head cocked, puts his hands on the wall on either side of Noah’s shoulders to box him in, and leers. “I lost a bet to Jess,” he lies, leaning a bit closer, ignoring Jess’ excited titter behind him. Noah’s eyes are going wide, smile falling off his face. He presses himself backward against the wall in face of the leer and the intrusion on his space. “So I’m going to kiss you.” He hasn’t even come out to Noah yet. Well. This is one way to do it.

“Um. No you’re not,” Noah says, swallowing.

“Yes I am. And there’s nothing you can do about it.” He sees the flare of panic in Noah’s eyes. And it’s so fucking wrong wrong wrong. He doesn’t want to do this but he really wants to too and it’s a stupid fucking brilliant idea. “It’s just a kiss. Tomorrow we forget all about it. It’s no biggie.” It’s immense. It’s huge. He’ll never be able to forget it. It can’t be undone. Noah shakes his head, looking afraid, and isn’t that just perfect. Fuck. He’s trash. He shouldn’t be doing this, even for Jess. Noah’s chest is heaving, brushing his with every breath, lips pressed together to a thin line.  
“If you duck under my arm I won’t chase after you, okay?” he says, low enough that Jess won’t hear. 

Noah stares at him for a beat, and then, _relaxes_. His chest is still heaving but he’s not pressing himself into the wall and his gaze flips from afraid to apprehensive. Trust. That’s trust right there. A misplaced trust because he has no self-control and this isn’t going to be a peck. This is something Noah believes is a sin. Pious, pretty Noah, who talks to God. 

_Lord, forgive me for what I’m about to do._

What’s the point of asking for forgiveness when you don’t mean it? _He_ doesn’t believe it’s a sin. ‘Sorry, God, for not committing a sin.’ Doesn’t make sense. 

He licks his lips and goes for it, tilting his head.

Noah should really have ducked out instead of squeezing his eyes shut like you do before jumping into ice cold water. He should. That would have been preferable. Much better than licking his lips last second, pulse jackhammering so fast it’s visible on his throat, cheeks firing red. Much better than parting his lips and let it happen. Why why why, stupid fucking why did he have to do that?

Those warm lips, soft and pliant, cheeky tongue playing along, possibly on muscle memory? Hell no. No no no. Noah’s kissing right back and Jess is making a high pitched noise in the background. As if he could care. He withdraws his head. “Holy shit, Noe. You kiss just like y―“ _your dad_. Can kissing skills be genetic? Is that even possible? Jess doesn’t kiss this way. He’s felt nothing when they’ve kissed. Horny of course. But not like… not like…

Noah’s looking at him, blinking twice. Bewildered. Chest still heaving and lips slightly parted. There’s no way he could have felt that too. It was too short. Too short. Just one more. One more and never again, he swears it. Just one more…

This time when he leans in Noah’s neither screwing his eyes shut nor ducking away. Noah licks his lips and meets him halfway, lowering his eyelids, looking at his lips.

This.

This is crossing an invisible line. This _is_ a sin. Not because they’re both guys, but because an unspoken pact is broken. 

Noah’s hands are suddenly resting on his midriff. Just resting. Warm and electric, thumb caressing lightly but not moving more than that.

Just a little more. Time’s standing still isn’t it? Everything is spinning and standing still. Narrowed down to just― 

This.

A little bit closer. 

He needs more. More of this sweet taste. More of this exhale of air and inhale of perfect calm. Everything will sort itself out. It’s going to be alright. No matter what. Nothing else matters. 

Breath of fire and hairs prickling. Fuck. Just a bit closer. More. Coming up for air’s for amateurs. They can go on. Please. Never let it stop. Heat spreading from within like a hefty draft of a fine cognac, causing shivers and thrills. Waking up a dragon that should have stayed the fuck asleep. 

Noah tastes like summer and life, but smells like the fresh of winter. And under that, everything that will ever mean ‘home’.

Heat searing wherever they touch. Noah’s hair, courser than it looks, but still gliding smooth and glossy in his hand.

And when did he move his hand to Noah’s hair? 

Noah’s hands on his midriff inches down, grips his hips and tugs them flush, then holds him still, forbidding him nonverbally, to grind. It’s cruel. Cruel, cruel, when he needs more, closer, just a bit. Holy shit, but they’re making a lie of the word ‘brother’. Razing it like the Berlin wall, chipping away at it with questing tongues, nipping teeth, heat aligned with heat, heaving chests and hitched breaths.

This.

It isn’t supposed to be this way. This is not how it should have gone down. 

Extemporaneous or prophesied - it’s too big. 

He’s trash, trash, trash, and he’s defiling a blessed being, far above what he’ll ever be worthy of. Can somebody please slow time down to stretch infinitely so he can keep this forever?

The one fruit in the garden he wasn’t allowed to taste. One bite, imparting knowledge that will forever drape him in shame and forbidden longing. He isn’t supposed to take a bite of this apple until after 2025, when he’s won the World Masterships, the Olympics, the everything, and feels it’s time to retire. Too soon. He couldn’t follow the script that’s been carved into the vessel surrounding his soul. And isn’t that a fucked up thought to have?

Just a little bit more. Closer. Holy shit. Is he the only one feeling the tectonic plates shift under his feet, quaking the earth and forever changing the landscape in which he dwells?

“Hah! Gotcha!” 

Jess flies straight up to no.1 person he wants to murder, bypassing his own parents by miles, all by making Noah withdraw and end it. Jess stand beside them, shiteating grin and eyes aglow in triumph, wiggling her cell to show that she got them on photo or video. Noah, breathing raggedly, bends his head to look at where their erections are pressed up against each other. His mouth is cherry, kiss bitten, spit slicked and open. Cheeks bloomed with pink roses. Eyes glossy and feverish, radiantly blue as a pool in sunlight or the ocean in a tropical paradise. He looks up and locks gaze. There’s stuff going on inside that head, that’s plain to see. What, is another matter. 

“Don’t do that again,” Noah says, breathless but firm.

“Yeah, no. I won’t,” he promises, averting his gaze. He looks at Jess. “Photo?”

“Vid,” she answers, delighted grin in place.

“Of course,” he mutters grumpily. “Let me see.”

“Touch transfer,” Jess says. She can be smart if she wants to. He’d erased the vid the moment he got his hands on her phone if she handed it over. He takes his phone from his back pocket and touches it to the back of hers, transferring the file. Noah does the same, surprisingly enough.

He still feels the phantom touch of Noah on his hips and midriff, like the hands never left. The taste of Noah lingers in his mouth. It’s all wrong and perfect, too perfect, so he steps further away from the siblings, grabs the bottle of Bailey’s from the desk, plops himself down on the chair, takes a swig, and hits play. He wishes he hadn’t traded the sweet taste of Noah for sweet liqueur that only tastes bitter, cleansing the taste of Eden away.

Noah’s chuckling, staring at his phone. “Man, how long were we at it?” he says in surprise. 

The video clip is almost two minutes long. A bit shaky at first, filmed from the bed and while Jess walked towards them on unsteady legs. Her giggle plays a backdrop soundtrack, but as she got close and came to stand beside them, the microphone picked up every sticky sound and hitched and ragged breath. It’s hot. Hotter than it has a right to be. Their eyes are closed, engrossed with what they’re doing, oblivious to the world. It’s _not_ ‘just’ a kiss. Jess pans down to where their hips are pressed together, bulges visible on both of them, then up again. “We need to erase this. It may hurt Noah’s mission if this gets out,” he says. He wants this to never have happened. Remove the proof of his doom. Noah was the only one in this family, who he hadn’t corrupted his relationship to. Until now. Trash, trash, trash. 

“No need. I stand by my actions. This gets out, I’m not cowering in shame,” Noah says with a relaxed smirk, unbothered, looking at his phone.

And that sentence alone, fills him with more shame that he can express. Noah’s got balls of steel. He was given a split second to decide, and still…

It’s hard to put on a mask of indifference. Like nothing just happened. Like everything didn’t just change between one heartbeat and another. He manages, but the guilt and shame lingers. The guilt and shame multiplies later, when he sneaks out of his bedroom, everyone else asleep, and goes like a homing bird towards the basement, to make love with Mr.Rainsborough, and sleep in his arms until the alarm rings and he has to go to his room to avoid discovery.

It’s hard during the days and nights that follow. He senses that’s Noah’s not happy with him. Himself? _Yearning_. Fucking suffering. And the guilt? Endless.

That’s why, on the third night, he opens Noah’s door at 1 AM, and goes inside without knocking. He’s drunk again. On eggnogg of all things. Noah’s soft sleeping breaths are a balm he wants a right to. He closes the door, goes to the bed and sinks to his knees on the floor beside it. He rests his forehead against the wooden side of the bedframe, closes his eyes and prays. Not out loud. He never did that when it came to matters of the heart. As a kid he’d taken a couple of beatings too many when his parents had heard him pray for the ‘wrong’ things. God, Jesus, his faith in them had saved his life, made him cling on through hell. When he prayed he left himself open and vulnerable. Without mental barriers up, any punishment was felt hundredfold. He prays in here, thinking that, if Noah really talks to God, maybe God could hear him better in here.

_Dear Lord Father, Jesus Christ our Saviour, dear Saint Noah, patron of temperance… please forgive me my foolish mistake. I’m trash. Unworthy. Please forgive me for defiling what was pure. Please forgive me for taking a bite of the apple that wasn’t offered to me. Help me find a way to redeem myself and regain the brotherhood that was lost. Help me cleanse this longing out of my heart and body, because I can’t do it myself. I’m not strong enough… I’m weak. Trash, trash, trash…._

“Justin? What are you doing in― You okay?” Noah’s sleep rough voice disrupts his prayer.

He lifts his head to see Noah support himself on his elbows, looking down on him with bleary eyes. His blanket has ridden down to reveal a winter-pale chest, broader than this summer, smooth and creamy, just a couple of blond hairs nestled between his pecks. And this is the problem. That spark that he and Jess are missing? That allows them to keep the friendship that they do? When he kissed Noah, that spark had flared to life like a fucking maritime distress flare, and it wouldn’t stop burning. Right now all he wanted was to crawl on top of Noah and worship every part of that pale body. Be the tanned dark Yin to Noah’s creamy Yang. Quench this thirst for Noah’s sweet taste by drowning in it. “I’m sorry, Noe. I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

Noah sits up fully and rubs an eye with the palm of his hand. “You still carrying that shit around?”

He flips around to sit with his back leaned against the bedside. “You’re disappointed and angry at me. I’ve noticed. I fucked up. I’m sorry. Didn’t think it would be such a big deal.”

“Not such a big deal kissing a guy?”

He flips his hand over to study his nails, then begins to studiously clean imaginary dirt from underneath them with the nails of his other hand. “Not such big deal kissing my brother.”

Noah’s quiet for a long time. Finally he shifts to light the lamp on his nightstand. “So why did you do it?”

“Because Jess asked me to and I owed her.” Betray one confidence in exchange for a chance to regain another. He takes a deep breath. “My parents brought me here because they caught me with another guy. They told me how disgusting I was. Infected by demons and brain overtaken by Satan. Taking me back to Pine Glen was their desperate last effort to set me straight. Because, you know, love and support has never made anyone change so why bother trying?” he says bitterly. “They figured that with a whole community full of judgemental, hateful, old testament-y peeps, I would surely break and become… not me.” He hears Noah swallow, shift, and pat his bed, inviting him to come sit. He shakes his head without looking up. He’s drunk and Noah’s wearing nothing but underwear under the blanket. It would do nothing to remedy the problem he’s having. “I came out to Jess as bisexual a little while before we left to college. Nervous as fuck about it. Despite all her equal rights speeches and whatnot. Ultimately, no matter how you twist and turn it, she’s from Pine Glen. I wasn’t sure she’d take it well.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He twists around to pin Noah with an ARE-YOU-FUCKING-STUPID? stare, until Noah averts his gaze, looking down on his lap shamefully in understanding.

He looks back on his nails and resumes cleaning them. “She took it well.”

Noah makes a sound that marks that he’s listening.

“Anyway, I asked Jess who she’d tell if she was lesbian or bi. She said you’d be the first one she’d tell. I thought she was mad, what with all the bullshit you were saying at the time.”

“Sorr― “

“Shut up if you want me to finish talking.”

Noah’s teeth click shut. 

“Back in SF, me and Jess hang all the time. We study together, party together… despite living an hour apart.” He takes a big breath and lets it out in a deep sigh. “Turns out Jess is full of shit. She ain’t got the balls to tell herself the truth, even less to tell you. She wanted something on you in case it got out.”

“What got out?”

He digs up his phone, finds one of the files of Jess and, who was it? Charlotte? Cherry? He couldn’t even remember. He hits play and hands the phone to Noah. Noah watches with a serious face.

He thought Noah would just watch a couple of seconds, but Noah keeps on staring at the screen all through the heavy makeout scene. Seeing his sister proceed to start lose clothes, suckling Candi-or-whatever’s boobs like a starving infant. “Jess is as bisexual as I am,” he tells Noah. “Only, she refuses to admit it. According to her, she’s ‘only experimenting’, and as such there’s no need for her to tell you. Fuck that shit. It’s easy to stand up for others. If everything goes to shit, you can distance yourself. But when it’s your own ass on the line… So she wanted me to kiss you.”

“So we’d be on equal grounds,” Noah states.

“Yeah. I knew it was a stupid idea. I’m sorry. I’ve never had a brother. I don’t know how to act like a proper brother should. But I did know enough that I knew it was a bad idea. You got to understand, Noe. I’m a piece of shit. I have low self-control. I’m prone to follow through with bad ideas, drunk or sober. I’ve revolted against my parents by doing all kinds of shit that I knew would come with consequences. It’s backbone reaction by now. I’ve got so many issues. I’m trash, Noe. Just a big load of trash.”

A hand comes to pet his hair briefly. “One man’s trash…” Noah says. _Another man’s treasure._ It’s strange. But by not denying it, only turning it into something else, he feels more comforted than vehement assurance that he isn’t trash could have made him feel. “You and Jessi ever kissed?” Noah asks.

He twists around and grabs his phone from Noah, finds a photo of them kissing, and hands it back.

Noah looks at it. The wheels are turning in his now alert eyes. “Ever had sex with her?”

“No. Kissing means nothing between her and me. We’ve done it, three, four times perhaps? But sex would be weird. We’re best friends, but not like that. Though I don’t think of her as a sister. Not really. Not like with you. That’s why… it was just… it shouldn’t have happened. I need you to be my brother. Or maybe the other way around. All I know is, I fucked up. And I’m sorry.”

“You won’t do it again?”

_If I could, I’d do it for the rest of my life._ “No.”

“Then forget about it. We’ll put it behind us. We’re cool.”

“You’re one hell of a kisser though. I’ve kissed many people, and you share the number one spot with another person.”

Noah chuckles breathily. “Suck up.”

He sniggers. “It’s true.”

“Yeah, yeah. Now go away and let me sleep,” Noah says with a smile in his voice.

He turns around. “We’re good?”

“We’re good.”

He’ll take it. It’s not true, because he still has that flame burning. They’ll never be ‘good’ again, because of it.

* * *

Having a bad conscience works wonders on your willingness to work. He’s up bright and early―or rather, he doesn’t bother going to bed again once he sneaks up from the den―and decides to go out and shovel snow. After bundling into thick winter clothing, pulling his beanie down and his scarf up (he hates winter chill), grabbing the shovel, he opens the door and immediately yelps in fright.

Outside, Neda’s leaning against the side of the doorway, arms crossed over his chest and ankles crossed over each other. He looks pissed - _the hell_ \- off.

“Jesus fucking Christ! You scared me. The hell are you doing here, Nie? It’s not even five thirty in the morning,” he sputters under Neda’s dark glare.

“I’m here, because you’re a weak, foolish excuse of a man, who has to go cry for help to do what you should be able to do all by yourself. Fool. Making him discover what’s supposed to be hidden from him for many years to come. One would think that the second disciple would be able to follow a scripted timeline, but no, you had to go _improvising_ ,” Neda spits out, utterly fed up look on his handsome face.

“ _Excuse me_? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I heard you. Noah will manage just fine without future encouragements from you. He’ll suffer heartbreak, but he’ll manage. But I’ve seen the consequences if your mistake is not corrected. You will not hold out a week before you repeat it, and in 99 out of a 100 possible outcomes, he’ll end up following you when you leave this abode. I’m not taking that chance. Just so you know, I don’t _want_ to help you out,” Neda explains with a sour twist to his lips, looking down his nose at him.

His heart is beating fast, fueled by a rush of fear induced adrenaline. Neda’s not making any sense, yet it feels like he knows exactly what Neda’s talking about. “Help me with _what_?”

Neda rolls his hazel eyes. “What you asked for. Reset the trigger,” he says. 

Before he can fire off another desperate question, trying to get Neda to make a tiny modicum of sense, Neda’s hand darts out and bops him lightly with a warm finger between his brows, just under the edge of his beanie. 

The world _shifts_.

At first he thinks there’s an earthquake, but it’s not. It feels like the ground moves underneath his feet. His knees feel weak and his body heavy, like he’s being catapulted upward or gravity got stronger, while his stomach swoops like he’s falling. It feels like he’s being flung in both directions at the same time. He’s a Rubik’s cube being swiftly solved by deft hands. It goes on for an eternity and is over in a blink of an eye.

“Woah. What did you just do?” he says, gaping at Neda.

“I presume that, since I’ve already told you what I was about to do, this is where you want me to lie and give you an explanation you find more credible. Very well. You had a seizure,” Neda drones patiently.

“I did?”

“Let’s go with that. Now start shovelling snow. You have penance to pay.”

“But if I just had a seizure―“ he begins to protest. Neda snaps his fingers. “Right. You’re right. This snow won’t scoot out of the way by itself.”

“It could. But I agree. It won’t.”

A while later he’s hard at work, shovelling. He wonders how long Neda’s been standing outside because his footprints are completely snowed over. You can’t see a single trace of them. Maybe the snowfall had been really heavy just before he rolled out of Mr.Rainsborough’s bed. That’s got to be it. There’s something off about Neda. He can’t put his finger on what. Yes, he’s strange, but that’s not it. He’s just… standing stock still with a pleased smile and watching him work for starters. Rude. The cold doesn’t seem to bother him in the least, despite wearing only a jeans jacket. “You’ve gotta teach me how to do that, Nie.” Neda’s never seemed to mind the nickname, and responds to it. It had tumbled out on their first meeting, like they’d known each other for a much longer time.

“Do what?”

“Ignore the cold like that. You should be shivering and chattering teeth, but you’re not.”

“I should?”

He snorts in amusement. He’s sweating buckets by now. “Unless you’re doing physical labour like me, yeah.”

“Like this?”

He puts the shovel down in the snow and turns to watch Neda. Fuck, but the guy’s hot. About 6 foot tall, broad shoulders, well muscled without being too buff. His face isn’t perfect, maybe a bit on the longish side, like Ryan Gosling, or Alexander Skarsgård. Wednesday, when he got here, Neda’s hair had been brown, and his long stubble light brown, leaning towards golden. He’d remarked to Neda that it’d suit him to colour his hair to a lighter brown with highlights. Lo and behold, the fucker had. If he’d remark about something, it’s the beard. The long stubble had grown into a short, unkempt beard. That, and the attitude problem. He had the attitude of a retail clerk when you came in to buy something one minute before closing. Noah had spoken long and vividly about Neda’s antics though, and he seemed like a really funny guy when you got to know him.

Like now for an instance. Neda’s standing straight and at ease, trembling slightly and clacking his teeth together rapidly as if he’s a rabbit gnawing on something.

He sniggers. “Now you’re just mocking me,” he protests.

“Show me how I should be doing it so that you don’t feel. Mocked,” Neda says dully, but with lips curving into the slightest smirk as he emphasis the last word.

He shakes his head. Nie is a strange, hot guy. He hugs himself, pulls his shoulders up, and does his best impression of freezing his ass off.

“I see. You wish me to look pathetic,” Neda says dryly and arches an eyebrow.

He throws his head back laughing. Yeah, he can see what Noah’s talking about. “It would lighten my mood considerable, yes. Now can you teach me how to ignore the cold?”

“You were doing a perfectly good job of it already by my estimation. Otherwise you wouldn’t have steam rising from you,” Neda points out.

“That’s not what I mean, asshole,” he answers with a grin. “And it wouldn’t kill you to lend a hand, you know?”

“Quite right. It wouldn’t,” Neda agrees, but makes no move to help.

He feels a burst of annoyance. “Get your ass out here and help me.”

“You’re doing penance,” Neda says dismissively.

“You should still help,” he insists.

“Why?”

“Because it’s the Christian thing to do.” A thought strikes him. “And none of the Rainsboroughs will approve of you just standing there watching me.”

Neda makes a dissatisfied grimace, but goes into the house and fetches one of the shovels parked inside of the door.

He turns his back to Neda, a smug smirk on his face, picks up his own shovel and starts working again. The snow is falling continuously. It’s not super cold, but well below normal for this town. He wishes they would buy something more effective than shovels. But once Neda gets to work (freakishly effectively) it goes pretty fast. It’ll go faster if they talk, just to kill the monotonous boredom of the strain. “So, Nie. Noah tells me you’re in his class. When did you start?”

“I’ve always been in his class.”

He snorts. “Yeah, no you haven’t.”

“I have. You can ask anyone. They will confirm it as true. I’ve been sitting in the back.”

“That’s fucking bullshit, man. You’re lying to me. I know you haven’t always been in his class.”

“What makes you say that?” Neda blinks curiously at him without stopping shovelling snow.

He stands up straight and takes off his beanie, stuffs it in his pocket and dries the sweat off his brow, looking at Neda. _Might as well check how open-minded Noah’s shadow is. If everything goes to shit, I can leg it back to SF._ “I _know_ you haven’t always been in his class, because last year _I_ was in his class, and that’d mean you’d been in my class too. If you had been, I would have seen you, whether you were sitting in the back or hiding in the cupboards.”

“How so?”

_Here goes nothing._ “Because you’re hot. And nobody looking as fuckable as you, girl or guy, pass me by. You’d do well to lose that beard though,” he adds and goes back to work, heart hammering nervously, mouth dry.

But Neda doesn’t even bat an eyelash at the confession to being bisexual. He straightens out and scratches his beard perplexedly. “There’s something wrong with my beard?”

“No. Not unless you want to look like a bum or a hillbilly lumberjack.”

“I see. I take it isn’t favourable to look like a woodworker these days?” Neda says thoughtfully.

He sniggers and shakes his head in amusement. 

“What would make me look more favourable?”

_Vain._ “Clean shaven or short stubble. Like, if you shave every third day. Then you’d cycle through both looks.”

“Thank you. I shall take this suggestion under consideration,” Neda declares solemnly and gets back to work.

It’s much later when he remembers that he never got an answer to when Neda started Noah’s class. He also knows he was feeling pretty wrecked about something when he headed out to shovel snow this morning, but whatever it was, it’s gone. He knows it was something about Noah and that kiss they shared. And yeah, he’s still feeling a bit bad about putting that shit on Noe without prior warning. But it was just a kiss, for God’s sake. Nothing to fret about...

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you believe I wasn't going to post this at all? You can thank my wonderful Beta Mizz_kitty21 for giving me the go ahead. ....un. Unless of course you _didn't_ like it and in that case it's ALL MY FAULT and she's just an innocent bystander who holds no blame. Okay? *curls defensively around the Beta in question*


	41. Not Set In Stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Complete disregard for lore, as usual.
> 
> Also, there's a place here, where you'll get confused. You will, because I want you to get as confused as Tom. Just keep reading and all will fall into place. Promise.

## Winter 2014 - 2015

* * *

**December 25th, 2014 - February 2015**

For Christmas Noah gives Juss a thin dark grey shirt with black sleeves that reaches halfway down his forearms. It strains over his chest but is loose fitting apart from that. It has “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure” printed in shadowed yellow on the chest. It doesn’t look like much to Tom, but Juss seems close to tears when he gets it, and promptly moves into it, only reluctantly taking it off to wash it. It goes back on as soon as it’s dry again. Tom thinks that from all the gifts that are exchanged, that one is the one that means the most, even if he doesn’t get the meaning behind it, since none of the two want to explain. Christmas is lovely this year, if you ignore the fact that Tom leans so heavily on his medication and maybe drinks too much. But it’s nice. Cozy and warm with the thickest layer of snow they’ve ever had outside. The tree is pretty and the house is permeated with all the scents that belongs to Christmas. He’s back to living a double life. Father by day, boyfriend by night. And he sleeps. His energy is constantly low, and he can’t stay awake if he closes his eyes for more than five minutes. In its own way, it’s heaven in the wake of months of insomnia. His mood may swing up and down, but over all, it’s better. He feels better.

Christmas isn’t without drama. If there’s one thing his parents always have been good at, it’s making Christmas to something wondrous and magical. For all their faults and flaws, it’s something they are fabulous at. The one time of the year when Tom can almost relax with them. Since the kids were small it’s become tradition to visit Tom’s parents on the 26th, stay the night and then go to Grace’s parents straight from there, on the 27th. Tom’s aunt Madge and his cousins Chris and Veronica, with their children and spouses, would come the 26th too. This year Tom flat out refuses to go. That sparks a giant fight with Jessi, like they’ve never had before. Noah’s the one to point out that Justin, while he would be tolerated as a guest, would not be welcome, and it wouldn’t be fair to leave him alone. He suggests that either they all stay at home, or they leave Tom and Juss behind. He wants to go, but would forsake going, for Tom and Juss. As angry and disappointed as Jessi is, Tom won’t budge, and it ends with him and Juss being left behind.

It’s bliss. 

They don’t fuck like rabbits, like you would think. (Although they do take advantage of being able to make love where ever they feel like.) The days are spent cuddling on the couch, talking, cooking together, taking a long sensual bath and just… _being._ And to be able to wake up together without an alarm tearing them apart in fear of discovery, may or may not be the best part of Tom’s Christmas. He just wishes Juss would call him Tom instead of Mr.Rainsborough, since Tom’s acting the part of a loving boyfriend. They’re not a pair as such. But when Justin’s here, Tom’s his, and enjoying it. Justin may be the one harboring romantic feelings, but Tom’s the one who is needy and craving intimacy.

The 28th is Noah’s birthday. As usual, this marks the day when his friends come over. This year Noah gets a surprise that makes him tear up. Martin and his fiancé Nina comes all the way from Oklahoma on a surprise visit. Like that wasn’t enough, Martin gives Noah his old car, since they’ve bought a new family car. It’s not a bad car―a red 2009 Toyota Camry―but it’s Martin’s visit that moves Noah the most. Tom on the other hand is aching with internal longing at the sight of Nina’s heavily pregnant belly. When the baby kicks, both he and Grace are there, silently begging to get to feel it. Nina lets them with a proud and tired smile. This is the kind of thing that makes him want to get drunk so he can have sex with his wife and make another baby. He won’t, he thinks. But this is the kind of thing that would make Grace let him. He reminds himself the dangers of getting pregnant at Grace’s age, just to stop himself from doing something monumentally stupid.

Grace gets angry with him when Noah gets Tom’s present. She scolds him afterwards, but is helpless to do anything about it, since the gift is already given. Noah is absolutely delighted when he gets his very own gun, the same make and model as Tom’s, along with a membership at the shooting range. He has to have it locked in Tom’s safe though. Tom won’t tolerate guns lying around where they can be used for anything but target shooting in a controlled environment.

That night he fucks Justin as if he could impregnate him. When Justin falls asleep, Tom lies awake for a while, thinking of what it would be like, raising a child with John, Stefan, or even Sam. He dreams of John.

The kids manage to talk them into letting the kids host a small new years party. Grace and Tom sticks around to supervise, which to Tom means popping four painkillers and getting drunk on champagne while having a blast talking to the youngsters. They’re all so full of plans and hope for the future. There’s about twenty guests at the party. Tom only knows a few of them. The crowd has changed since Noah got famous. Several friends have disappeared to be replaced with others. This crowd is refreshingly open-minded. Tom fleetingly wonders why none of his kids tells him he’s making a fool of himself and shoos him off to hide in the basement. But both Noah and Jessi keeps calling him over, urging him to talk to their friends. So Tom’s getting drunk, holding on to decent ‘adult’ behaviour on a wing and a prayer.

Juss is macking on a blonde slip of a girl. Tom’s happy for him, secretly hoping he’ll fall in love. Grace retires early, leaving supervision to Tom.

When the clock nears twelve, people pile out to watch the fireworks. They haven’t bought any fireworks. They’ve long since learned that it’s a waste of money since Paul always set up the best fireworks in town anyway.

Tom too, goes outside to watch the fireworks that light up the cloudless sky. It’s bitingly cold, but the chill feels good against his overheated skin. He wonders what John’s doing now. Is he watching fireworks too? Is he at a party, or alone? How does he feel? Does he ever think about Tom? Just fleetingly at least? Does he ever miss them, before he knew what Tom is?

The train of thoughts make him sad, so he goes back inside to reacquaint himself with a bottle of champagne and another painkiller. Tom’s losing himself to intoxication, floating away into a comfortable haze. If he was in a state where he could reflect on it, he’d think the only reason none of the kids are reacting to it, is because they’re too drunk.

It’s 2015, and he’s still slowly dying from a broken heart, wondering why it refuses to heal.

He ends up in an armchair in the living room, watching without participating. Smoking too much and drinking too much champagne. The living room has been turned into a dance floor, the couch and armchairs pushed against the wall, the lighting is cut and replaced with a spotlight and a disco ball, along with another rotating ball that projects bright colours.

Less than an hour into the new year Neda arrives and announces she’s there to bless the year for everyone in the house. (“Except you. And you. What are you still doing here? Get out. Yuk.”) Tom can’t stop laughing at how Neda weeds out the guests, making some leave with her/his abrasiveness, and letting some remain. The party changes character after that. Juss abandons the blonde little slip to court Neda at the sight of him. Tom wishes he was invisible, so he could sit and watch his kids be who they are in private. It seems his wish is granted. Maybe they think he’s asleep, because they seem to forget he’s there after that. He’s high as a kite, and has a long conversation with Neda (the ebony female version with eyes made of light) in his head, while sitting in the armchair, seeing his kids do stuff he doesn’t want to know they do. 

There are some highlights. Jessi is making out with a guy named Josh. It’s getting a lot more X-rated than it should, and the pair stumble towards the stairs, heading for Jessi’s room. Tom’s almost on his way to interfere when Justin breaks the pair up, shoos Josh off, and helps Jessi upstairs to put her to bed. Tom feels a 100% better about knowing the two of them party together in SF, after seeing that.

Noah dances like nobody's watching anytime a techno, house, or trance beat comes on. He dances by himself, not interested in being joined by any of the remaining girls, and can be seen expressing annoyance when one of them tries to join him for some grinding. But once again, Justin’s there to the rescue. He cuts between them, rests his wrist on Noah’s shoulder and dances at arm’s lengths distance, making a wall of himself that effectively hinders anyone from touching Noah. Noah’s lips curve in a little smile and he closes his eyes, giving himself over to the music. This may be the first time Tom gets why Noah loves music that’s little more than an incessant beat in Tom’s ears.

Justin may be drunk too, but he keeps an eye on everybody but Tom, leaving Noah to go bundle two people into cabs, deeming them too drunk. One by one people drop off to go home or continue to other parties.

Not until everybody but Neda’s left does Tom see Neda relax into a pleasant state. Juss and Noah’s dancing when Neda goes to join them, hogging Juss to dance in a way that’s bordering on porn. Tom can’t stop giggling at how Juss repeatedly try to kiss Neda and how Neda always keeps his lips a hair's breadth away from letting him. It’s made even more funny by the conversation he’s imagining having with Neda in his head. She says she’s snake charming, to keep Justin from repeating a mistake. It doesn’t make sense, but is still hilarious, since Juss thinks he has a chance, and Tom knows without a shadow of a doubt that the guy he’s dancing with is just being a cockteasing shit. (That Neda _can_ dance is a surprise though. The Neda in Tom’s head sputters indignantly when he thinks that, offended in the lack of faith in her skills.) Noah sits down it the couch to watch them with heavy eyelids and an unreadable expression, sipping a glass of champagne. Tom could have paid good money to know what his son is thinking. Juss has come out to him, without a shadow of a doubt. It must have gone well or this dance wouldn’t have happened. Still, Noah might be struggling with acceptance when it’s shoved in his face.

Tom knows all about that. People who says queers should have the same rights as others, as long as they keep it hidden, out of sight, and don’t rub their grossness in people’s faces. Then there’s those who are very open and accepting, unless it’s a family member, or somebody close to them. There are those who are the other way around. They’ll accept anything from a family member, loving unconditionally, but hates every _other_ homosexual. 

So Noah’s watching sin take place right in front of him, and Tom has no way of telling how he feels about it.

Tom wakes up in the den, with no recollection of how he got there, sporting a hellish hangover and getting hit with the angst of the century, for making a fool of himself in front of his kids. He regrets every choice he’s made in his life. How he falls back to sleep is a mystery.

* * *

"Tom!" Grace calls out from the top of the stairs. She sounds excited.

Tom lies on the soft leather couch in the den listening to music. He ignores her, closes his eyes and focuses on the lyrics Rolling Stones sing instead.

" _You can't always get what you want_  
 _You can't always get what you want_  
 _You can't always get what you want_  
 _But if you try sometimes well you might find_  
 _You get what you need_ "

" _Tom_!" Grace calls out again. This time he can hear her come down the stairs which is unusual enough for him to heave a tired sigh, open his eyes and sit up. He peeks over the back of the couch and for the millionth time wonders how they got to this point. The point when he feels resentment just by looking at her, her voice grates at him and her laughter makes him want to hit something. He's not an acrimonious and spiteful man. It's sad really, thinking back on the time when they used to be best friends and making her smile still made him happy.

Grace takes the last step down in the den, eyes shining with joy. She's impeccably dressed in a white pencil skirt, black blouse and a waist long white jacket, strings of pearls around her neck. Her blonde hair is fixed in a loose ponytail in the back. Still after all these years men envy him for being the one to 'reel her in'. They can have her for all he cares. The sooner, the better.

"Jessi is coming home for the break," she announces.

_That_ gets his attention. He sits up straighter and throws an arm over the back of the couch. "She is?" No wonder Grace is so delighted. They've both missed Jessi while she's been away at college.

"Yes. She asked if she could bring friends―"

"Of course she can."

Grace just smiles at his interruption. "That's what I said. But guess what? They're all boys. Apparently she's met someone and he's coming with! His brother and two of his friends will be joining too." That they are boys doesn't change the welcome. Grace and Tom agrees that trying to keep boys and girls separated doesn't help teaching them to interact with each other in a respectful and decent manner. Even in this strict community they've had an open (relatively) and honest approach to sexual education and boy/girl relationships. Although pushing for the 'no sex before marriage' as everyone else here, they didn't believe pretending that there was no risk of it happening before that. Learning the scientific truth was much better than finding porn and believing what was depicted there was the reality. So they had dutifully (and painfully awkwardly) answered questions like 'Where do babies come from?' and such like with the truth, and never denied the kids to hang out with the opposite sex. Grace and Tom had been best friends after all, and that had nothing to do with him being gay and everything to do with their personalities matching (once upon a time).

Twice he’d gotten it confirmed from overhearing Noah. Once, a couple of months ago when he’d come out to smoke while Noah and a bunch of friends were horsing around by the pool he saw Noah chastising one of his friends “Dude, she said _no_. Stop nagging and show her some respect!” Tom couldn’t hold back the glow of pride in his chest that his 18 year old son fully understood the whole consent thing but also had the guts to tell someone he considered a friend to back off.

The first time he overheard Noah say something that made him think that they’d done well as parents was after his retirement when Jessi still lived at home. Noah had knocked on the bathroom door while Jessi was in there. “Jess, I’m off to the store. You want something?”

“I’m out of tampons. Could you get me some?”

“Sure. Which ones? The pink or the blue ones?”

That easy. That’s how a man should approach the female bodily functions. Not with disgust and mockery.

“I see no problem in that,” Tom answers Grace, hoping she’ll go away so he doesn’t have to look at her any more.

“Good. I want you to…” she gives him a list of instructions of things needed doing in preparation of Jessi’s visit with her guests. He holds back the impulse to stick his fingers in his mouth and mock gag, just to show her what he thinks about hearing her voice. He wonders what it would feel like to just once, _once_ , throw a fist into that perfect face of hers. Bet the sound of her nose breaking would be awfully satisfying.

Last year the drought had been horrible. The Croatoan virus had swept across the states, narrowly missing Pine Glen just to hit the nearest neighbour town with great devastation. Grace had organised several charity events to help them, enlisting his help whether he want to or not (he didn’t). Two major sorrows hit the household. One, was when that incredibly hot piece of sex on legs, that was friends with his kids for a while, went and committed suicide. Noah had not been the same after that. Tom’s feelings about it were mixed. He found it tragic that someone that young, felt they couldn’t bear to be alive. He was jealous. Lord, he wanted to take the same door out. And thirdly, he was relieved. He’d barely talked to the kid. Justin, was it? That’s right. Piercings, tattoos, and the body of a young athlete… he’d been gagging to taste that morsel, and consequently avoided him. He wonders if there’s anything he could have done to save the kid. Noah had somehow lost his spark when Justin died. Then Jess went off to college. Noah barely spoke to him or Grace these days. He went straight to church after school, to soak up any scrap of knowledge from Bonahue and Carmichael, set on becoming a priest.

The only tiny shred of light in Tom’s life these days were church on Sundays and all the gatherings and parties where Grace and he had to put on the mask of the perfect couple. He hated them, but the Powells would be there. John Powell might be one of the most handsome men in the states, according to Tom. A very strict man, who definitely resented sodomites like Tom. Apart from that, he had something good and alluring about him. Early on, after Tom’s retirement, he’d done some overtures of friendship. Offering something more than just heavily moderated smalltalk on barbeques and bake sales. One time Tom had run into him at a store and he’d offered Tom to come along to the gun range to try shooting. Tom had declined. Guns are evil, and he wants nothing to do with them, except maybe to put one against his head and pull the trigger. But sometimes… sometimes when they stood talking, the mood changed. He got lost in the depth of John’s warm brown eyes and wondered what would happen if he’d taken John up on that offer.

He’d been nothing but good since he came home. He’d kept his troubled thoughts to himself, hidden his depression from Noah back when his son tried prying the truth out of him. He’d kept his hands to himself, resisted the urge to drink too much and too often, done everything Grace and his parents asked from him. He may at times lean a bit too heavily on his painkillers, but not enough to worry. He missed Sam. The pain never dulled. It was Stefan all over again. But he was strong, resisting temptations, living as God demanded, waiting for the day he’d finally go to Hell.

Jessi coming back meant life. He loves her beyond comparison, and the bond between them had been strengthened since his retirement. He spent most of the summer before she left, along with her. He doubts any man will ever be good enough for her in his eyes.

When the day comes that Jessi’s returning, both he and Grace are pacing, waiting anxiously in excitement. They hear a loud car turn up the driveway and hurry to the door. Tom slips an arm around Grace's waist, feeling his skin tingle with repulsion. It’s all about keeping up appearance. They wait until the doorbell ring until they open.

Suddenly, Tom can’t breathe. His smile freezes on his face, cold sweat pouring forth by his neck. Jessi’s boyfriend is for a second the mirror image of Tom, but recuperates faster. Tom knows there’s other men standing there―subconsciously he recognises them―but he can’t take his eyes of the tall young man with an arm around Jessi’s waist.

“Jess! You told us your name was Moore, not Rainsborough,” someone chastises behind her.

Jessi giggles. “Oh yeah. Well it’s not strictly a lie. You know daddy?” she answers while the young man at her side smiles charmingly at Tom.

He reaches out a hand towards Tom. “Sam Winchester, Sir. A pleasure to finally get to meet you…”

* * *

Tom sits up with a jerk, covered in sweat and Sam’s firm grip still felt on his hand. He’s completely confused. His heart is racing. It had felt so real. It _was_ real! Must have been. He can’t remember what happened between Sam shook his hand and now. How did he get here? Where is Sam? One of the guestrooms? Which one? Who else was he with? Morningstar, the other Winchester, and Collins. What―?

The smell of cigarette smoke sting his nostrils, distracting him.

“No future is set in stone. For a long time, that was the most likely outcome. Would have been, had you not. Given in to temptation,” Neda says, sitting on the edge of his bed, beside his pillow, smoking a cigarette with a curious expression. 

“What?” Tom blinks at Neda in confusion. It felt so real. It couldn’t have been just a dream.

“Quite right. It wasn’t. A few months from now, that would have come to pass, had you not made some of the choices you question making. What appears to be a bad thing, isn’t always. Things you truly consider bad would have happened, had Sam come here. He won’t now, because Justin is a sharp little tool. When Jessica and he run into Winchesters & Co, he’ll recognise a look shared between Sam and Morningstar when Jessica asks if Sam is single. He’ll know that the ‘Yes’ uttered is untruthful, and will prevent Jessica from starting a one-sided relationship with Sam. In Sam’s defense, he wouldn’t have known that she was your daughter until you opened the door. But it nevertheless would have started you onto a road you’d find. Abhorrent.” Neda takes another deep drag on the cigarette, then turns it around to stare at the glowing cherry. “What are the point of these? I cannot figure out why you keep this habit.”

Tom’s not keeping up. “There is no point. Sam isn’t here?” he asks desperately, trying to get his realities in order. Wanting to hurry upstairs to find Sam.

Neda smiles and shakes his head. “No. Nor is Justin dead, you don’t hate Grace, the Croatoan bit Pine Glen, you took up shooting, bonded with Noah, got. _Friendly_ with John. All these little variables. Of course, the Croatoan was somebody else's choice, but the rest is all you. Little things that altered your future, further and further away from what you’d consider a catastrophe. From my point of view, it’s of no import. I had preferred that future, since it would have shifted focus back onto you, and you’re easier to work with. Back to my point. Not all your choices have been the best ones, but stop fretting about it and resign yourself to deal with consequences as they appear.”

Tom falls back down onto the pillow. “Easy for you to say. You’re―“

“What? Cleaning up the mess of human choices on a daily basis?” Neda snorts in amusement. “Indeed. Free will is quite a hassle. Don’t get me wrong. I could correct and steer as I please. I do. Frequently. It’s your species vanity that makes you think we have. Rules.” Neda takes another deep drag on the cigarette, so deep it burns the whole thing up straight down to the filter. Tom wonders how she does it without burning her fingers. She drops the cig in an ashtray on the bedside table before the pillar of ashes fall off. Then she lets the smoke out as one perfect smoke ring after another, each shooting through the last. Her expression turns vexed and she scratches her stubbled jaw. “We have no more laws governing what we may or may not do to you, than you have of what you may do, to what you consider lesser species. They’re social constructs you follow as you please, and when you don’t follow them, the consequences are never dire. However, we hold great respect for the gift of choice bestowed by the Light, upon living things. Therefore I do rarely alter minds. Unless asked to. But adapt instead. There are many roads to reach the top of a mountain. Remember, no future is set in stone. Everything can still go horribly wrong,” Neda says, then chuckles like it’s a _fantastic_ joke. She turns her head and winks at him. Go back to sleep,” she says, and snaps her fi―

* * *

Tom wakes up with a relatively mild hangover somewhere at noon. He goes upstairs to find the house cleaned. The family is in the kitchen. Everyone but Grace is equally muted and hungover. Nobody gives him any shit for getting drunk. Tom vows not to take as many painkillers. His dreams are getting outright messed up. It’s hard to discern what is just a dream and what is real sometimes, and that’s bound to be the drugs. It has to be.

* * *

It’s hard to see Juss and Jessi leave again. But Tom’s a little better off since their visit, doesn’t fall so far back. Things settle into a relative routine. He makes a goal for himself, chore-wise. Do one thing each day. That’s it. Only one thing, and if he does it, he needn’t fret. It works, to an extent. Somedays taking a morning shower and shave would have been enough for the day, and those days he takes a nap after the shower, then does something simple as a chore. Like handling the dishes or loading the laundry. Vacuum or clean the bathroom can be saved for other days. The main difference from before Juss and Jessi came home, is that he can sleep again. Not that he feels rested by it in any way, but he’s less groggy, can focus a little more, be a little more rational.

His evenings belongs to Noah.

When school starts up again they continue their visits to other churches. Once it had been something Tom had wondered how he would manage, but now he looks forward to it. There’s no pressure involved. They don’t run into people he knows, so he doesn’t have to pretend to be something he isn’t. Some places they visit are horrible, some boring, some just strange. But some are charming, peaceful, inspiring. Neda joins them occasionally. One time just to spit at the church and throw curses at it, other times, she’s like a gleeful child, full of excitement on the way over there, then hums contentedly in the backseat all the way home. 

Honestly, Tom can’t figure out what makes her favour one church over another.

If they haven’t got a sermon booked, he and Noah go to the range to shoot. Tom only competes on weekends, to make sure Noah can come watch.

The people surrounding Noah helps him find a new place to be on Wednesdays. It’s an old theatre. Tom still needs to take three painkillers ahead, to manage that many people, but he comes along to watch every time.

They’re more than halfway into January when Noah brings something up, that Tom had expected much earlier, or not at all.

They’re in Noah’s car. They take it everywhere because he loves it so much. ‘Nelly’ he calls it. Why he chose that name eludes Tom, but it makes him smile and reminds him of Sam’s stories about Dean and his Baby. Noah keeps Nelly spotless and keeps buying stuff for her. Race car upholstery that you pull over the front seats, Ipod dock, a cross to hang from the rearview mirror, blue lights he’s planning to install under the car in spring, and he’s saving up for new hub caps. It smells good inside from Wunderbaums Noah’s hidden somewhere, and best of all - Tom doesn’t have to drive. So Tom’s just leaning back in his seat, enjoying the view. The road is a dark streak through deep mounds of snow, evergreens covered with snow on each side of the road. He’s lost in old memories of travelling with his teams on roads just like these. Winters rarely got this cold here, nor did they have so much snow. But unlike the drought, Tom enjoys this freaky weather. The sun’s still up, the sky is clear blue, and it isn’t too bad to be alive.

“Justin is bisexual,” Noah says, out of nowhere.

Tom’s head whips around to look at Noah, pulse jumping nervously. Noah side eyes him then looks back at the road. Tom’s mouth is getting dry. What if Justin didn’t just come out to Noah, but told him about the affair he had with Tom? 

_Oh, God! What if saw us! What if―_

“You think it’s okay to still be friends with him?” Noah asks, with no inflection whatsoever to help Tom figure out what he’s thinking.

“Son, I think,” Tom starts carefully,mouth so dry it’s hard to talk, “that if you have to ask yourself that, then maybe you aren’t really his friend to begin with.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah. I mean, I wasn’t really afraid you’d say ‘no’, but still. It’s a big deal in these parts, isn’t it? So there was this niggling of a doubt…”

Tom relaxes a notch. “And what would you have done, had I said no?”

“Nothing. Justin’s my brother. Nothing will change that. Not even you,” Noah answers, looking steadily ahead, a determined set to his jaw.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. He’s a good guy.”

Noah nods and purses his lips.

Tom eyes Noah warily, wondering if that was that. If there’s anything more coming or if he can relax again. The silent stretches and Tom gets this itch under his skin, that he has to say something to fill it. But he can’t. There’s not a single word he can come up with.

Noah’s eyes suddenly go round and he turns his head to stare at Tom in shock. “Oh my God! You _knew_. You already knew, didn’t you? For how long?”

“Hey, hey! Eyes on the road,” Tom urges. “Yes. I knew,” he admits, because what else can he do?

“How long?”

“I don’t know? How long have you known him? Spring? Early summer?”

“Jesus Christ. And you didn’t say anything? Does mom know?” Noah looks utterly horrified and betrayed.

“Not as far as I know. I haven’t told her and I don’t think Juss have either.”

“Jesus Christ. Fuck! _Dad_! You should have said something! Don’t you understand what this means?” Noah shakes his head, upset.

“What?”

“It means Justin had to sit and hear me spout all that misguided vitriol about sodomites, and you knew. You could have stopped it. If you’d just told me―“ he covers his mouth with a hand and makes a pitiful guilt ridden noise.

“And then what, Noah? You’ve got a good heart, but there is no guarantee you’d have changed your opinion of men who lie with men just because you suddenly knew that Justin was one of them. Juss was in dire need of the safety and friendship we provided for him. He’s a strong kid, but his parents brought him here specifically to kill his spirit. If the wrong people got wind of it, it might have been the last nail in his coffin. If there’s one rule, it’s that you never, ever, out somebody without their knowledge and permission. Never. It can be downright life threatening.” The fear that Noah knows about his and Justin’s affair evaporated now when he knows the source of Noah’s distress. “You shouldn’t even have told me.”

“No. You and I have a deal. I get to talk with you, and you keep your mouth shut about what I tell you. I _need_ that, dad. I only tell you a fraction of what people tell me, and if I don’t have somebody I can trust, to talk to, I’ll go mad. And I need your advice on things too.” Noah looks stern and determined when he talks, but there’s a slight frantic edge to his voice.

“Of course, Champ.”

Noah breathes out heavily. He’s quiet for a while, then “I think Neda’s also bi.”

“She’s into women too?” Tom asks in surprise. Then again, he doesn’t think Neda’s really into anybody, sexually. When she danced with Justin at new years, she’d had ulterior motives that Tom didn’t understand. Sexual or romantic gratification wasn’t what she was after.

Noah breaks out in a suffering laugh. “I swear to God, dad. You’re hopeless. Neda doesn’t give a shit about you misgendering him though. He doesn’t care, like, _at all_. We could probably call him ‘it’, and he’d be just as happy. He ignores or listens completely at will, no matter what you say to him. I wish you could tag along to our history lessons. It’s hilarious when the teacher asks him a question. He always gives these wild accounts for what happened, that is way off from what the books says, and he retells it as if he was right there. Like…” Noah starts retelling a story Neda told the class and Tom knows they’re out of the woods for now.

One would think the buzz around Noah would die when it isn’t a novelty anymore, but this isn’t the case. Each Wednesday seems to bring new people to listen to Noah in the old theatre. Not only that, but people start claiming Noah performed this or that miracle. A baby who got well after Noah touched it, a destitute man stumbled upon money, a woman who were suddenly offered her dream job… all these things could have happened on their own, but are credited to Noah.

People start coming to their house, trying to get a hold of Noah, and Tom gets a new appreciation for his nosy neighbour Paul, who promptly chases them off or calls the police on them.

Grace comes home one day, _furious_.

She slams the door, takes off her coat and stomps into the kitchen.

Tom’s heart leaps into his throat, wondering what he’s done this time.

“ _AAAARGH!_ I’m so mad!” Grace yells when she comes into the kitchen. “That hypocrite piece of waste!”

Okay, so he’s not the guilty party, or she would have expressed herself differently.

“What happened?”

“I got a call from Bonahue,” she says and rips the refrigerator door open. She takes out the carton of eggs, flips the lid open, grabs an egg and hurls it at the sink. It cracks and splatters the inside of the sink. Grace does have a penchant for throwing things when she’s angry, but this is a good, easily cleaned way of doing it.

Noah hears the ruckus and comes galloping down the stairs. He pokes his head into the doorway. “What’s happening?” he asks. It’s a big difference from before when Tom and Grace argued all the time. Tom’s instinct is to duck his head and beg for forgiveness, but Noah seems to have forgotten all about their frequent arguments. Back then, the kids kept away.

“Bonahue questioned my ‘Christian spirit’, and said that I would do well to start organising charities again, since God does not think well of those who slack off,” Grace says and hurls two more eggs at the sink.

“What?” both Noah and Tom says at the same time.

“Not only that. He had the audacity to tell me that a woman should know her place, and I should place my efforts where my talents lie. Since a woman can’t be expected to make rational decisions by herself.”

Indignant anger starts boil under Tom’s skin. Questioning _his_ wife?! How _dare_ he?!

“You didn’t tell him what you’re doing during days?” Noah asks.

Grace glares in his direction. Not _at_ him. Her anger still isn’t directed towards any of them. “First off, I shouldn’t have to recount all my good deeds to a priest. _He’s_ not the one who will judge me when I die. I work a full time job taking care of poor people who can’t take care of themselves, or need help one way or another, down in the poor neighbourhoods. I do it for free, asking, and receiving, _nothing_ in return. And he questions my Christian spirit?” Another egg goes flying. “I don’t do it to be admired amongst my peers, not to spit-shine my reputation. I don’t do it to _look_ good. Second of all, anyone can organise charity events like I did before. The reason he’s complaining, is because none of my charity work lately has been tied to church and I’m damned good at organising charities. So he no longer has the numbers to present to his superiors back in Delaware. He’s a God damned _hypocrite_! No charity work is worth less, just because he can’t take credit for it!”

The upcoming Sunday Tom searches Bonahue out. “I heard you questioned my ability to make rational decisions. I would like a good explanation for that,” he says after the sermon, loud enough for anyone near to overhear. His back is straight and his posture dignified, radiating authority.

“You’re mistaken, Mr.Rainsborough. I’ve never questioned you. I was only worried about your wife― “ Bonahue starts, being promptly cut off.

“You expect me to allow my wife to spend eight to twelve hours daily, doing charity work away from home, getting neither credit or reimbursement, without my explicit counsel and permission?” Tom asks. Since it’s a question, rather than a statement, it can’t be accounted for as a lie. He’d never dream of trying to control Grace as if he owned her. But Bonahue doesn’t need to know that.

There’s some titter amongst the nearby people. _Good._

Bonahue holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “Of course not. I only think that your wife’s charity work would be better directed elsewhere, where we can be assured it reaches those who need it.” Bonahue’s smile makes Tom want to gag.

“Then you can let your misgivings rest, Reverend. My wife’s efforts reaches where they should, to those in need. If you’re in further doubt, please feel free to join her for a week. You’ll see for yourself what a great difference she makes.”

Tom’s polite smile following Bonahue’s (insincere) apologies, makes him feel dirty. 

Bonahue never takes him up on the suggestion, but neither does he criticize Grace again.

Neda gives his two cents about Bonahue, saying he believes in the doctrine and the church, not in the Lord himself. He says it’s often the case. Many who professes to believe in God, reject any proof he provides them with as wild fantasies.

In the beginning of February Noah stops going to church on Sundays. He says he visits churches at least three days a week with Tom, and devotes most days to God, so he won’t go to a church that feels tainted to him. Grace is severely distressed by this. Tom on the other hand, suggests that maybe they should provide an alternative place of worship on Sunday, since maybe Noah isn’t the only one feeling that way. Especially considering how Bonahue preaches a doctrine that goes against what God has revealed to Noah. Noah goes quiet and thoughtful for a whole week after that.

* * *


	42. Moving On...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter notes:** I've let Karim's opinions be based on a number of muslim representatives on TV and in the news, as well as the views held by neighbours and friends of mine that are muslim.
> 
> Also, you'll have to suffer through a short religious lesson here, watered down to the extreme and lacking. If you want more details, feel free to read up on it on wikipedia or in other sources.

## Winter 2015

* * *

**February - March 2015**

Noah comes home a thrusts a flyer in Tom’s hand. Tom looks down on it and blinks. “Really?”

“Yeah. So apparently I’ll be holding sermons now too. I’m not a priest, but if there’s a need, it should be filled, right?” Noah sounds so suffering Tom has to look up from the flyer to scrutinise his son.

Noah looks down right pained, looking at Tom with eyes pleading for help. “This is a good thing, son.”

“I know, I _know_! But I’m not… why do _I_ have to do it? And seriously? I’m _not_ a priest. Is this even allowed?”

“Of course it is. That’s what religious freedom is about. Besides, if the church is currently following the wrong doctrine, then any priest would be disqualified. And there's nothing to say you have to do it. If people show up only to gawk at you, that's one thing. Maybe some will. But I think some genuinely wants to follow the new doctrine, because it gives them hope and their faith back. If I'm right, it doesn’t have to be you. Maybe if you just write the sermon and ask someone else to give it?”

Noah stares at him for a while, then sags with relief. “Thank God. That’s a good suggestion. I'm trying to get people to think for themselves after all. This is just getting so big, dad. And I mentioned what you said at school when I was talking to Mr.Vaughn and Mrs.Wilson. Then, before I knew it, flyers were made and handed out. Neda was humming, skipping around like a ffff―, like a jester, handing these out along with compliments. _Compliments_ , dad! Neda. Can you even believe that? Then he started singing. At least, that’s what I think he was doing. He made some eerie crooning sound no human should be able make, sounding like somebody playing a saw with a bow or something. And then, you can never guess what happened then!” Noah’s getting worked up. Tom’s not sure if he should be upset along with Noah, or if he should laugh. “I was explaining to a bunch of people that, yes, I’ll do it. But maybe I’m not right for it since I’m not a priest and thus not _really_ authorized to speak for God in _that_ manner. And then all the sudden two red cardinals landed on each of my shoulders. _Dad_ , we don’t even have northern cardinals in the state!”

Tom’s lips twitch. “I’m sure that would account as God giving you a sign, son.”

Noah lets out a humourless laugh. “Duh. I get that. And so did others. It’s just. It’s a lot. Sure, I get more prayers answered now, but I’m still making it up as I go. It’s so big and I’m so afraid to say something wrong.”

“You get more prayers answered…?”

“Yeah. I didn’t tell you? Right. Um. No. I haven’t told anyone. But lately I’m answered whenever I send a really personal prayer. I don’t know, dad. I just wanted to get people to stop spreading hate. Now it’s just snowballed and I’m in the center of it. It feels like God wants something from me that I’m not equipped to give. And I don’t even know what it is.” Noah runs his hand through his hair, looking crestfallen, gaze flickering around nervously. “What if I fail?”

Tom puts his hand on Noah’s shoulder. “Hey, Champ. Look at me.” Noah looks up to meet his gaze. They’re almost at a height now. Noah’s put in a growth spurt these last couple of months. “Nobody can force you to do this. Nobody. Not even God. You’ve said so yourself. God wants us to love him by free will. He doesn’t want forced worship. You don’t have to do anything just because God commands it. If you feel forced, you’ll close yourself off to him.”

Noah blinks, then sighs in relief and falls forward, hugging him. “Thanks, dad. You always say the right things.”

Tom chuckles warmly and hugs back, kissing the crown of Noah’s head. “You opting out? I can call Mrs.Wilson and Mr.Vaughn for you. Arrange for an alternative.”

Noah sighs and relaxes, stepping out of the embrace. “No. I’m not. To tell you the truth, I’m a bit excited too. It’s, like, unreal. I think you’re the one taking it most in stride, compared to everyone. It keeps me grounded. I dunno. I hate speaking before crowds. I’m good at it, I suppose. But I hate it and I’m always super nervous about it. You think we’re doing the right thing, right?”

Tom nods.

“Good. Can we skip out on our trip tonight? I need to go crash a while, then get started writing the sermon. It’s just fucked up. Sorry.”

“It’s alright. Go take a nap, son.” He ruffles Noah’s hair and shoos him off. He remains standing, reading the flyer. It’s simple enough, offering Sunday worship at the old theatre instead of at church. Set two hours later, to boot. So if you wanted, you could either sleep in or go to both. It’s going to alienate them from the congregation for sure. 

He realises he doesn’t care, but worries a bit what Grace will think. Her life has been built around church… but that was before, wasn’t it? The Croatoan had torn her from church to do her own thing. There was the thing with friends and family, but as far as he’s concerned, their kids are more important. He thinks―hopes―Grace feels the same way.

Later that week, Tom prays for the first time in ages. It happens in an unusual circumstance. They go to visit a mosque. Neda comes along, chipper as can be. Apparently, Noah has had a rather lengthy email correspondence with the Imam Karim Sala and they’re greeted warmly. Neda, as usual when she comes along, seems to know the conduct of the place they’re visiting. She might have been a muslim for how she’s acting.

They’re shown around. Karim, an elderly man with a kind and fatherly demeanor, is eager to educate people about Islam. “We’ve always been targeted for hate crimes, but since 2001 when Al-Qaeda attacked the Twin Towers, it’s become so much worse. We do not share the beliefs of those who choose to murder innocent people. I, we, are as devastated by the evil deeds committed by terrorists as any other man and woman, regardless of their faith. Allah is merciful and so should we be,” Karim explains. “Our mosque is the target of vandalism at least once or twice a year, and we’ve told our women that their safety is more important than the wearing of the hijab. Allah will forgive. Most choose to wear it anyway.”

“Your women have been attacked?” Tom asks. 

“Yes. Too frequently. People try to tear it off them, and attack them for wearing it. Most muslims around here are born in America. Not all can be recognised by name or looks. But the hijab sets them apart and makes them a target.”

“How do you feel about homosexuals and other minorities?” Noah asks.

“We cannot ask for understanding and respect, if we are not prepared to grant it ourselves. I’m sad to say, we here, are not representative of everyone of our faith, but we welcome homosexuals to worship with us. Allah is love. Islam is about peace. It is a great sorrow that extremists are the ones getting to represent Islam in media. Their violent ways are no more representative for our faith than Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold* are representative of American youths.” *Columbine Highschool massacre

Tom finds the mosque interior to be beautiful. He likes the washing ritual before entering. Likes the feel of the carpet under his bare feet. Likes the open space and lack of chairs. He’s not a fan of men and women worshipping separately. According to Karim, men and women are equal in spirit before Allah, and they worship separately so that women can keep their modesty, that they should not be forced to bend over and bow in front of a man. Not forced to make any inappropriate gestures. Prayers should be devoted solely to Allah, without distraction. Tom understands the reasoning, but disagrees with it. As long as separation isn’t a choice, to him it sounds just like more of the same old. Girls getting sent home from school because their bra strap showed, allegedly distracting boys from their education, women getting blamed for their rape for wearing skirts. He can see that some, possibly even many women would still choose to worship in separation, to feel more relaxed, safer. But that is a tragedy in itself. It’s not an Islamic problem, it’s a long standing problem in society as a whole. A way of thinking grounded in men and women’s minds both, subtly enforced since the moment of birth. Their own congregation back home is very much guilty of that kind of thinking too. Like the sexistic crap Bonahue had said to Grace.

Islam, translated, means ‘voluntary submission to God’. Muslim means ‘one who surrenders/submits’. Tom likes that and for the first time in a long time finds himself missing his old relationship to God. He’s felt such a great love for God, but it’s been locked away by self-hatred and a sense of unworthiness for a long time. Noah’s quest has step by step lapped away at the walls he’s put up, like waves softly working its way through sandstone. He remembers the love, hope, joy, and peace God has brought him as a kid, before he realised what he was. It hits him like a punch in the gut, the longing. He wants it back. Neda meets his gaze with the softest smile.

_We miss you too, child._

_What are you?_

Neda’s smile turns sly. There’s no answer in his head this time. Tom’s not sure if he can blame this on the painkiller he’d taken before leaving home. Maybe he’s just imagining things, but…

The tour continues. Islam acknowledges Adam, Noah, Abraham, Moses and Jesus and other biblical figures as prophets of Allah. But according to Islam, Muhammad is the last prophet, leaving the final will of God in Quran.

“Was,” Neda interrupts Karim. But when Karim looks at him questioningly Neda just smiles amicably, then wanders off to look at something that caught his interest.

Islam has five pillars. Shahadah, the declaration of Faith. There is but one God and Muhammad is his messenger. Salat: Prayer, to be performed five times a day in certain positions, always in the direction of Mecca. Zakāt: Charity. This is where both Tom and Noah perks their ears in interest. According to Karim, it is the personal responsibility of each Muslim to ease the economic hardship of others and to strive towards eliminating inequality. Each one pays in relation to their income. If one cannot give economic help, one pays by good deeds and helping people. To Tom, this echoes of ‘It’s the Christian thing to do.’

The fourth pillar is Sawm: Fasting. During the month of Ramadan every muslim that has reached puberty are obliged to fast from dawn to dusk, unless they have a medical reason not to do so. This is so they can seek nearness to God, learn compassion for the poor and needy, and reflect on their own sins. They’re supposed to be especially mindful to refrain from violence, anger, envy, greed, lust, profane language, gossip, and other sins that goes against their faith. This too, is something Tom approves of.

The last pillar is Hajj: Pilgrimage to Mecca. Tom couldn’t care less about that part any more than he cares for Christian pilgrimages. God can be found everywhere, so his interest wanes for a moment, even if Noah listens intently and with open curiosity.

The mosque serves both as a place of worship and as a community center, just like the church back home. Organises charity events, is a place for gatherings, for meeting people and for personal contemplation.

Tom didn’t know what he was expecting, but this wasn’t it. The education on other religions had been reduced to almost nothing in school, and his knowledge is faulty at best. And really, since religion reflects people at large, it shames him that he’s subconsciously has equalled muslim with terrorist, without meaning to do so. It’s true that there are many things he doesn’t agree with when it comes to their worship. But the same can be said for many Christian doctrines.

He finds the call to prayers hauntingly beautiful when another man demonstrates it.

After the tour they sit down in a private room so Noah and Karim may speak. They’re offered the best coffee Tom’s ever tasted. He sits quietly and listens to the very deep, inquisitive, and respectful discussion that ensues. Karim is as curious of Noah and his self-imposed (or God-imposed) quest as Noah is curious of Karim’s personal relationship to God. After a while, he gets restless though.

“Karim, I’m sorry for interrupting,” he says. “I believe without a shadow of a doubt, that God, as I know Him, and Allah, are the same.”

Karim nods.

“I also think, that any place of worship, holds a certain closeness to God, rarely achieved in other places, save for in undisturbed nature. I was wondering if it would be disrespectful of me, to pray here, in your mosque? I just…” he can’t find words for it. He wants to pray here, where the longing struck him. He has no plans of converting to Islam, nor does he want to explain to Karim, in front of Noah, that he’s been struggling with his faith. But maybe it shows. Karim scrutinises him for a beat, then nods and makes a ‘go ahead’ gesture towards the door.

Tom thanks him and leaves the room. He’s not sure if it’s really allowed to let an ‘infidel’ pray here, or if Karim for some reason decided to be lenient. There are other men the big room used for worship. Tom is a bit nervous they’ll consider him disrespectful, or in any way mocking, which is far from the case. Nobody seems to pay him much mind though. The huge carpet covering the whole floor has a pattern of the prayer maths muslim use when they pray in other places. In a way, it reminds of the pews in church. Pre-designated places for worship. Tom chooses a spot at random, stands at the edge of the prayer math, closes his eyes and bends his neck. For a while he just stands there, breathing, trying to clear his mind. Then he goes to his knees and bows down, putting his forehead to the carpet.

_Dear Lord, creator of all, forgive me, for I have doubted._

Maybe the act of bowing in this fashion is important for him as a form of reintroduction. A physical representation of how unworthy and small he feels. The position makes him feels safe and humble.

_I have not dared to pray to you in a long time. I didn’t think you wanted me to, I’m still not sure of that. It went so far, my love for you waned, stumbled. I’m not a strong man. There’s only so long I can go on loving, expecting only punishment and loathing in return…_

He sits up for a brief moment, stares ahead at nothing, trying to find words, then he bows again.

_It’s my firm belief that you have chosen to speak with my son, to convey a message, and for me, that message holds hope. I don’t know what you want from Noah, how much you want him to do… But I ask of you, I pray that you’ll give me the strength and clarity needed, to be the support he needs. To be able to deliver what he cannot ask for._

_Lord, I think I’m too steeped in sin, to ever be forgiven. I can’t even find it in me, to truly regret all my sins, since many of them have brought me some of the happiest moments of my life. But help me be mentally prepared, to help my son, so others can be saved, and find salvation and comfort in your light. Amen._

He sits up, and resists doing the cross sign, in respect of where he is. He feels calmer than he has in a long while. None of that subconscious waiting for a lashing. Inside, there’s just tranquility.

* * *

On the way back Neda’s singing in the way Noah described, a haunting, inhuman, Ooo-ing sound that no less, to Tom’s ears, sounds like pure joy. It fills Tom with a sense of vastness, of ecstasy if ecstasy was a slow, painful experience of sheer beauty, too great for any human to truly perceive. Although, Neda isn’t human, is she? That should be impossible, but Tom finds himself embracing the thought with a strange acceptance. It would explain so much. Not only the sound no human vocal cords should be able to make. She’s a benevolent something, in the guise of a young man.

He looks at Neda through the rearview mirror, hazel eyes meeting his. Neda’s practically oozing contentment.

_What are you?_

Neda’s eyes narrow in amusement, but there’s no answer.

He could be wrong.

He might be going mad, jumping to completely surrealistic conclusions as a way of coping with his depression while taking prescription drugs. Some people had odd talents. Maybe Neda just liked to stand out, and said odd things to appear special. It could be sheer coincidences that made Neda wink at him just after he’s had a certain thought. Logically, he should be wrong.

_But I’m not, now am I?_

Neda looks out of the window, innocent as can be.

He’ll figure it out. Dwell on it. Right now, Tom’s pretty content to just listen to that beautiful melodious sound Neda’s making. 

“ _Oh my God, can you cut it out?_ ” Noah suddenly exclaims. “That sound is just, _weird_. It’s getting on my nerves.”

“My apologies,” Neda says dryly. “I was not aware your senses were so delicate and frail. I presumed you were not completely. Tonedeaf.”

Noah’s chin juts out peevishly. “I’m not. _You_ are.” 

“On the contrary, I can perceive more tones than any other being walking the earth currently. My siblings included,” Neda retorts with an air of arrogant smugness. 

“And yet, you sound awful,” Noah deadpans.

“Your father appreciates my celebratory song,” Neda states haughtily.

Noah turns his head towards Tom and glares accusingly. Tom shrugs apologetically with a little smile. Noah looks utterly betrayed, then glares at the road ahead, squeezing the steering wheel. “Yeah, well. Dad’s got shit for taste in music,” he mutters.

Tom chuckles and shakes his head. It’s almost like having Jessi in the car with them. Neda makes a good stand in for Noah to be bickering with. He throws a look at his son. “Noah?”

“What?” Noah snaps, scowling.

“Migraine?” Tom asks softly. Noah’s temper got consecutively worse when he had a migraine oncoming.

“Yeah..,” Noah admits.

“Want me to drive? We can stop and get some advil on the way...”

Noah’s face smooths out. “Yeah. Alright. Thanks, dad.”

* * *

When they’ve dropped off Neda downtown Tom side eyes Noah. “Did something happen after I left?” He didn’t want to ask when Neda was still with them. Noah had been quiet after they left the mosque. At first Tom had thought nothing of it. Noah often mulled things over after he’d had a meeting with someone like this. But sometimes his migraines were stress related.

“No. Don’t worry about it, dad,” Noah says, leaning his head heavily against the side window. “I found it fascinating how much Karim thought just like us in all the things that matters, yet how different their religion still is. But right now I just want to go home and lie down.” He closes his eyes.

“You’d tell me though? If something happened?”

Noah’s quiet a bit too long for Tom’s comfort, before he answers. “Yes.” But then again, it can be because of the migraine.

Not for the first time, Tom considers giving Noah one of his own painkillers.

_No. Too soon._

He doesn’t know why he always thinks that as soon as he’s considered sharing his drugs with his son. The thought is so strong he can’t ignore it. He trusts his gut feeling. If Noah asks, he won’t deny him. But he’ll have to ask for himself.

That night, Tom adds another line to his mantra while he looks in the mirror. “It’s not my fault. I don’t have to accept mistreatment, or forgive my parents. And God still loves me.”

He almost believes it.

* * *

Grace has a slight freak out during Saturday when Tom informs her he’s not going to church on Sunday, opting instead to go to the old theatre to listen to Mr.Vaughn hold the sermon Noah wrote. Noah’s out with friends during the evening and Grace lets her fear pour forth. What if Noah’s wrong? What if they’ll all go to Hell because of this? What will people think? What if Noah’s in danger? What if…? The list goes on.

He understands her fears, he truly does. “Grace. The doctrine we’ve grown up with, that Bonahue and Carmichael preaches, makes me long for Hell. It makes me believe that the Devil will be the more merciful of the two, and makes eternal torture sound like a pretty good option,” he says calmly once her frightened rant is over.

Grace looks downright stunned. She looks at him like she’s never seen him before. Like it’s never crossed her mind that someone might feel that way. “Oh,” she says. Then she steps into his space and wraps her arms around him, allowing him to embrace her back. He leans his chin on the crown of her head. “I’m so afraid someone will hurt Noah for this. That he’ll get attacked, not just verbally,” she says.

“Isn’t that in itself reason enough to leave the congregation?” he asks softly.

She doesn’t answer, but on Sunday she joins them to the theatre instead of going to church. 

There’s a lot more people than Tom had expected. Many he’s never seen in church at all. People that know they don’t measure up. Many teenagers―which was to be expected, since the fliers were passed around in school―and some familiar adult faces. Naturally, there’s gawkers there, that leave when they realise Noah’s not the one holding the sermon.

The sermon is beautiful and full of hope. Mr.Vaughn leads them in personal prayers, and a young girl sings a hymn acapella. Her voice is incredible. Tom’s not the only one with tears in his eyes when she’s done. Tom knows this is the right thing. He can feel it. This is how you’re supposed to feel at church. _Soothed._ Filled with enough encouragement to go on for another week.

Mr.Vaughn is a good choice. Naturally authoritative, used to speaking in front of a group (he’s a teacher, after all), respected. The fact that nobody would have expected him to be a convert also works to their advantage.

On Monday, late at night, Noah’s the one having a freak out. He comes to get Tom in the den, wanting him to come to Noah’s room, where he explains his predicament. They want to make themselves official, his followers, registering as an actual church. It’s easily done in this country, with its religious freedom. However, when voting for what to call themselves, somebody suggested ‘The Church of Noah’, it won with 100% of the votes, and _that’s_ what freaking his son out. “Dad! It’s vainglory! I don’t want people to think I’m doing this as a freaking ego boost!”

“Is it though? You were not the one who made the suggestion. You’re not asking them to worship you. But you’re the one who brought many of them their faith back. It’s natural for people to want to celebrate that.”

Noah makes a pained sound. They’re sitting side by side on his bed, feet on the floor.

“Have you prayed about it?” Tom asks. “Perhaps God doesn’t mind? Maybe he’s more concerned about people finding the right path?”

Noah swallows dryly, looking at his hands. He’s quiet for a while. Swallows again. “I… God answers my prayers more often now. I’ve… I still don’t hear words, but I’ve starting to get a sense of feelings along with that warm, golden light. Like, approval and disapproval. Sometimes frustration. It’s not coming from me, because sometimes it totally clashes with my own thoughts on a matter. Like now. I guess… I guess that’s what’s really scaring the hell out of me. It’s getting so big, making me feel so small, like a twig getting swept away with the rapids.”

Tom puts an arm around Noah’s shoulders. “God or no God, if you want out, just say the word. We’ll move away from here if you feel it’s necessary. Anything. Mom and I will support you no matter what you choose,” Tom soothes. His heart is pounding in elation after hearing this confession. He means what he says to Noah, but he feels inexplicably excited about what Noah’s telling him now.

Noah’s quiet for a while, lifts his hand and bites his nail. “No,” he says at long last. “I don’t want to stop. I _want_ to do this. I’m just scared not to measure up, not to be able to do what God wants from me. Afraid I’ll displease Him.”

“Son, if you just keep believing in what you’re doing, God will provide you with the help you need. If He trusts in you, you’ll be safe, trusting Him.” Tom feels completely safe, making that assumption.

Noah looks at him worriedly, then relaxes and leans against his shoulder. “Thanks, dad. I needed that.”

When he’s about to go to bed that night Tom finds a lollipop on his bed. He wonders who could have put it there. On impulse he peels the wrapper and sticks it in his mouth. It’s bacon and maple syrup flavoured. The taste makes him think of John.

* * *

Every Sunday more and more people show up at the sermon. One week Tom meets John’s secretary there. He asks her how John’s doing.

“Didn’t you hear? He’s transferred. He no longer works in our office.”

“Why?”

“I’m sorry Tom, I can’t tell you why,” she answers, putting a hand on his arm and giving him a comforting smile. He must look as pathetic as he feels.

There are some trouble makers showing up at the sermons, but officer Kubrick and Creedy opts to keep the peace, the lighting strike killing Noah’s would-be-killer had them convinced that Noah was blessed, one way or another. Having law enforcement on their side helps.

The most surprising addition to their own growing congregation, is their neighbour Paul, who shows up on the fourth Sunday. Tom thinks he’s there to start trouble, but no. “You should hear the vitriol they say about your family at church, Tom. I had enough last Sunday. Bonahue called Noah a charlatan, dealing with devil worship. Hah! I’d like to see _him_ end droughts and heal babies. He urged us to take sides, so here I am. If anybody’s going to be messing with _my_ neighbours, it’s going to be me,” Paul spits vehemently, then wags a finger in Tom’s face. “Don’t you think this means I suddenly approve of all the nonsense going on in your yard. Playing around like children, disturbing the peace for decent men like myself,” he admonishes. Then he wanders off to take a seat in the back.

There are other consequences. Grace comes home one day, so mad she slams the door, opens it again just so she can slam it again, harder this time. She’d been denied buying groceries in the nearest shop. Marion, the cashier, had used ‘religious freedom’ as a reason not to serve ‘devil worshippers’. Several of Grace’s friends stop being friends with her. They all get to hear slurs and nasty things said behind their backs when they’re out and about. Though the opposite is also true. Some people seek to engage them in friendly conversation, that barely talked to them before.

Noah and Grace starts to frequently have friends over. Grace no longer hosts the kind of parties they used to have, but have one or a couple of friends over to chat over a glass of wine. It’s very straining for Tom, but the mood at home is less guarded, more open, less keeping up appearance when friends do come over. Tom hides in the den or goes to the range as often as he can while people are at the house.

These days, he has more stamina to do things, despite feeling drained. He has more moments of happiness, but there’s always an underlying sense of melancholy and sorrow. He prays a couple of times a week. It’s a tentative thing, praying. A careful hope of being accepted, if not wanted. He never prays for anything for himself, except for strength to be of help. He’s found a place for himself, acting as support for Noah, without actively participating in the hype.

In the beginning of March he gets a text, that makes him jubilantly happy. The signal wakes him up.

`**02:45 AM Justin:** I don’t really know how to say this. I’ve met someone...`

Tom doesn’t bother replying, instead he calls Justin straight away. “You’ve met someone? As in fallen in love?” he asks as soon as Justin picks up.

“Um. Yeah…” Justin answers uncertainly.

Tom’s practically vibrating with excitement, wide awake. “And? Who is it? Are they into you?”

“You’re not… you’re not mad or anything?” 

“No, of course not. I want you to be happy, Juss.”

Tom can hear Justin’s relieved exhale over the line. “His name is Jerry, and yeah. He’s very into me,” he says, this time with a smile carrying through the voice.

“Oh, that’s great,” Tom says, grin nearly splitting his face in half. “How did you meet?”

“We have class together. Every Tuesday morning I swim, right? And I’m always early to my first class. Usually, so is he. It used to be very awkward. He’d sit outside of the classroom when I arrived, throwing glances at me while we waited for them to unlock the door. He never said anything. I thought he was one of those who thinks I’m a freak. I mean, I dress like I did when I came home last time. Makeup, hair clips, the works, you know? I don’t really mind the stares anymore. Honestly. Most people are cool around here, and those who aren’t keep their mouth shut. So you know…” Justin’s getting excited as he speaks. “Jerry’s a total nerd. You should see him. Ginger, scrawny, millions of freckles, glasses, button downs and pullover sweaters.” Juss chuckles. “He’s adorable. So he was always staring at me, right? So one morning I got fed up by it. I said, ‘If you’re going to keep looking at me like that, we might as well have a conversation to give you an excuse, sweetheart.’ Holy shit, you should have seen his blush! _Crim-son!_ ” 

Justin sniggers at the fond memory. “So, he stuttered an apology, but I wasn’t going to let him get away with it. I figured I’d make him own up to all that staring he’s been doing. And sometimes it helps to let them take a good gawk, right? So, in true fuck-off fashion, I moved to sit on the bench next to him, putting an arm on the backrest behind him, trying to provoke a reaction. I asked about the book he was reading and managed to strike up some semblance of conversation until they came to unlock the door. It wasn’t easy because he kept stuttering and blushing. I figured I’d scared him from gawking ever again. But _then_ , after the lesson, he came up to me and said, ‘W-would you like to go out with me?’”

Tom lets out an excited little whimper.

Justin laughs. “Yeah! Exactly! I was _not_ expecting that from him. I count myself as having a fairly good gaydar, alright? But I had not interpreted his behaviour that way at all. So I asked him if he meant like a date. I needed that clarified. I don’t know if you’ve ever been on a date that _you_ think is a date, and the other person doesn’t, but that shit gets awkward really fast.”

Tom chuckles. He hasn’t per se, but his and John’s date came pretty damned close.

Juss goes on. “So Jerry was all like ‘yes. I mean, of course you wouldn’t. Forget I asked,’ and turned to walk away ,all crimson again. I had to grab him by the back of his collar and pull him back, saying ‘Hells yeah, I want to,’ or he might have slunk away. Really, I just saw a shot at some action. But we went on a date and he’s awesome. Really awesome, once that shyness let go. He’s smart, snarky, funny. _Everything._ And one hell of a power bottom. Took about a week for me to fall in love. We’ve been dating for almost a month now.”

“I’m so happy for you, Juss. You bringing him home for spring break?”

“No. I. I― Mom doesn’t know about me being… you know. It’s too soon. I―“

“It’s okay, Juss. I don’t know how the hell that slipped my mind.”

“It’s alright. In a way, I’m glad it did. At least I know I can relax completely around you.”

“You got any pictures?”

They talk for almost an hour, and Tom’s really, down to the core, happy for Justin. Juss sends a picture of him and Jerry. Justin called the guy scrawny, but Tom doesn’t agree. He’s lean and unathletic in his build. They look completely smitten with each other. It lifts a burden off Tom’s shoulders. As much as he enjoyed their romance, it’s been laden with guilt. Better, just before Juss hangs up he hesitantly calls Tom ‘Tom’. It’s such a marker of a shift in their relationship that Tom feels like Grace looked when Juss called her mom the first time. 

On impulse he dials John’s number. It’s stupid. Especially since it’s in the middle of the night and he hasn’t taken any painkillers or alcohol to blame it on. " _We're sorry; you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try your call again,_ " an automatic recording tells him.

John is gone. He hasn’t seen John since December third last year. It’s been months.

It’s time to let go.

 

So why can’t he?

* * *


	43. Aaaaand.... Rewind!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Going back in time to see what _really_ happened...

On Monday, late at night, Noah’s the one having a freak out. He comes to get Tom in the den, wanting him to come to Noah’s room, where he explains his predicament. They want to make themselves official, his followers, registering as an actual church. It’s easily done in this country, with its religious freedom. However, when voting for what to call themselves, somebody suggested ‘The Church of Noah’, it won with 100% of the votes, and _that’s_ what freaking his son out. “Dad! It’s vainglory! I don’t want people to think I’m doing this as a freaking ego boost!”

“Is it though? You were not the one who made the suggestion. You’re not asking them to worship you. But you’re the one who brought many of them their faith back. It’s natural for people to want to celebrate that.”

Noah makes a pained sound. They’re sitting side by side on his bed, feet on the floor.

“Have you prayed about it?” Tom asks. “Perhaps God doesn’t mind? Maybe he’s more concerned about people finding the right path?”

Noah swallows dryly, looking at his hands. He’s quiet for a while. Swallows again. “I… God answers my prayers more often now. I’ve… I still don’t hear words, but I’ve starting to get a sense of feelings along with that warm, golden light. Like, approval and disapproval. Sometimes frustration. It’s not coming from me, because sometimes it totally clashes with my own thoughts on a matter. Like now. I guess… I guess that’s what’s really scaring the hell out of me. It’s getting so big, making me feel so small, like a twig getting swept away with the rapids.”

Tom puts an arm around Noah’s shoulders. “God or no God, if you want out, just say the word. We’ll move away from here if you feel it’s necessary. Anything. Mom and I will support you no matter what you choose,” Tom soothes. His heart is pounding in elation after hearing this confession. He means what he says to Noah, but he feels inexplicably excited about what Noah’s telling him now.

Noah’s quiet for a while, lifts his hand and bites his nail. “No,” he says at long last. “I don’t want to stop. I _want_ to do this. I’m just scared not to measure up, not to be able to do what God wants from me. Afraid I’ll displease Him.”

“Son, if you just keep believing in what you’re doing, God will provide you with the help you need. If He trusts in you, you’ll be safe, trusting Him. I’m certain He’s already made sure you have the backup you need.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he _knows_. 

Noah looks at him worriedly, then relaxes and leans against his shoulder. “Thanks, dad. I needed that.”

It takes all his self control not to _run_ down to the den once he leaves Noah. He locks the door behind him and goes to stand in the middle of the room, fisting his hair, pulling, to calm himself down. “Neda, you’re an angel. You’re an honest to God, angel!” he says aloud to the empty room.

“Honest to God, yes. To humans? NNNn… not so much.” Tom whirls around to find Neda lying on his bed, propped up on pillows, one leg bent, the other leg’s calf resting on the bent knee. He’s got a lollipop in his mouth and a handful of other lollipops on his chest, holding a pellucid lollipop with a worm encased in it, in his hands, examining it curiously. “You humans eat the strangest things…” he says with a peculiar drifting tone. He bites down on the lollipop in his mouth, crushing it, takes out the stick and drops it on the floor while crunching on the candy left in his mouth. Then he begins to peel the plastic from around the disgusting worm-probably-tequila flavoured lollipop he had been examining.

Stunned, (because who wouldn’t be?) it takes a moment for Tom to make sense of having an angel on his bed. But when he _does_ catch up, ( _I have an ANGEL on my bed!!!_ ) he drops to his knees and bows his head.

“Oh, quit it. If I wanted you on our knees I would have appeared to you in my true form from the getgo,” Neda snipes with a vexed expression. “Or flirted, come to think of it…” he adds with an amused lilt to his voice, narrowing his eyes mockingly.

“ _Jesus Christ_ ,” Tom mumbles, shame burning inside of him in the face of that joke.

Neda rolls his eyes and stuffs the gross-looking lollipop in his mouth, dropping the transparent wrapper on the floor. “Did you not hear me? I don’t want you bowing and scraping. Get up.”

Hesitantly, he gets to his feet again.

_Jesus Christ! Neda_ is _an angel! She really is. Oh my Lord! Jesus Christ!_

“Being a bit repetitive over there, if I may say so,” Neda says and crunches down on the lollipop, freeing it from the stick, drops the stick on the floor and picks out an all black lollipop from the bounty lying on his chest. He starts peeling it.

_What do I say?! What do I do?!_

“Well. After the initial kooky moment, you usually ask questions,” Neda answers helpfully.

Tom lets out a pained, disbelieving laugh. How the hell are you supposed to react when―

― _wait a minute_ ― 

“Usually?”

Neda nods mock encouragingly, cheek bulging from the candy inside. “Mhm.” He resumes chewing, crunching the remaining lollipop, then stuffs the next one in his mouth. He picks up a random lollipop from his pile and holds it out towards Tom with raised eyebrows.

“I’ve figured out what you are before,” Tom states, trying to will his racing heart to slow down.

Neda wiggles the offered lollipop expectantly, kicking Tom into action. When an angel of the Lord offers you a lollipop you damned well take it!

Neda chuckles in amusement, looking pleased with himself.

Tom peels the lollipop, staring down at the powerful, divine creature, slash, teenage boy lying on his bed. He puts the lollipop in his mouth. Eggnog french vanilla. A quick look at the rest of the lollipops lying on Neda’s chest reveals he should be happy about this one. Right away he can spot the tabasco one, one says seaweed/sushi on the wrapper, one has a scorpio in it, and the others all look to be odd tastes. “I din’t no ‘ngels had t’eat,” he says around the lollipop, caught in a loop of ‘ _What do I say? What do I say? What do I say?_ ’.

“We don’t. I’m just exploring the delights of having tastebuds,” Neda answers.

Tom points at the sushi flavoured one and takes the lollipop out of his mouth so he can talk properly. “I doubt that one’s going to cause any delight.”

“You’d be surprised of what I can take delight in.”

“When did I figure out what you are?” That feels like a very urgent question.

“Oh good. The questions. You recognised me the moment you first saw me. That was a delight. I didn’t think you’d remember me, or recognise me while I’m wearing a vessel.”

Neda used to sing to him when he was a baby and couldn’t sleep. Neda can stop time. Neda played with him as a kid, and made funny faces behind his parents back while they were scolding him. Neda’s eyes are made of light when she takes a form. Neda― 

“There we are,” Neda says and smiles warmly at him. “It’s such a shame I can’t let you remember this talk. I like to be remembered. I get bored. While in a vessel I’m stuck in your pace more or less. Time drags.”

“It does, doesn’t it,” Tom says, briefly thinking of John, flinching at his own mournful tone and stuffs the lollipop back in his mouth.

Neda throws her head back laughing, putting the half eaten lollipop on display. “See, this is what I like about you, Tom. Here I am. A celestial being, so powerful I can lay waste to the whole planet in a fit of rage, and you gawk for a minute then go back moping about your lost love.”

“I thought only God could do that?” Tom says, feeling more embarrassed than awed or afraid. Neda’s _familiar_. It’s hard to be afraid of someone who comforted you as a child.

“No. Any angel of my caliber could lay waste to a planet. Those above me in Heaven, the Sword, the Light, the Healer, the Messenger, and the Scribe, can lay waste to galaxies. Father can lay annihilate the whole _Universe_.” Neda squints at him, pursing his lips thoughtfully for a beat, then gets an excited, sly gleam in her eyes. “Pop quiz. What are the names of the angels I just mentioned?”

“Um…” Math teachers always threatened to call in the middle of the night to interrogate you on the multiplication tables, back in school. That an angel would pop in to do the same, wasn’t anticipated. “...um… Metatron is the Scribe? Messenger has got to be Gabriel. The Healer is definitely Raphael. The Sword would be Michael. And… um…” Tom’s brain stalls. Neda nods encouragingly for him to go on. His mind rebels at the answer that pops up. Besides, Neda said _in_ Heaven.

As soon as he thinks that, Neda scoffs and gives him a reproachful look. “What you humans fail to understand, is that the apocalypse has already happened. Several times. This is, the fourth? The fifth do-over.”

“The Light is Lucifer? Back in Heaven?” Tom asks skeptically.

“Yes. And don’t you sound so put off by it. _He_ is your true champion. If it wasn’t for him, your world would have been destroyed again by now. Instead he suggested giving you a chance to save yourselves this time around. Michael wanted to destroy you and let Father rebuild. It makes sense. Michael hasn’t seen any action for a long time, and you know how soldiers get when they’re cooped up in the barracks for too long,” Neda says, sits up straight, pulls his legs into a cross legged position, and rummages for a new lollipop from the ones that fall from his chest to the bed.

“And they get to decide that?”

“Of course not. You can’t expect the big five to make a decision together. The results of that always ends up being. Unfortunate.” Neda picks a new lollipop out, removes the wrapper, pops it into his mouth, points to the bed and snaps his fingers demandingly while crunching down on his latest treat.

Tom obediently sits down, sticking his own lollipop back into his mouth.

“So for the questions you’re about to ask; Always. It’s in the bible. Noah has already figured it out. You should be able to too. Champion mankind to ensure your future survival. It’s complicated. Yes, but no. It’s currently the best option. Don’t be daft. He’s choosing it himself and will continue to do so every time he’s offered an out. Because you always ask the same questions.”

Tom’s barely keeping up. The questions haven’t even formed in his mind yet. He watches Neda’s smug expression as the questions line up. _Since when is Lucifer on our side? What do you want with my son? Why him? Can’t you take me instead? Do you really need to force him to do this? How do you know what I’m going to ask?_ He takes the lollipop out of his mouth with a scowl. “Now you’re just showing off,” he says annoyedly.

Neda sniggers. “Perhaps.”

“And ‘it’s complicated’ isn’t an answer. I would like a clarification,” Tom mutters and gestures accusingly at Neda with his lollipop before popping it back in his mouth.

“It has to do with the vessel, or as you say, the body. Every living thing has a certain sensitivity level for the divine and supernatural. Let’s call it a set of 108 extra senses that can sense different unseen and unheard things. Most have a very low sensitivity level. For me to communicate with someone with the lowest sensitivity, it’s like pouring the ocean’s worth of water through a hole no bigger than a pinprick. It can’t be done without blasting the hole wide open. That leaves a human. Wrecked.”

_Talking to them like this for an instance, if they even manage to make out words, would leave them catatonic. Depending on how hard I need to force it, anything from a day to for life,_ Neda’s female voice says in his head. _But certain bloodlines, like your own on your mother’s side have an exceedingly high sensitivity. That’s all in the vessel. All souls are equally sensitive._

“Not a single human vessel can take hearing or seeing God himself without combusting. Thus, I was created,” Neda says out loud. “And Gabriel,” Neda adds with a displeased frown. “But he’s much less patient than me. I’m more of a precision tool.”

_So why Noah? Why not me?_ , Tom thinks, sucking on his lollipop.

“Mh. You were our first choice. We need someone with a great deal of faith. Sure, I could show myself to anyone in my true form, and _make them_ instant believers. Or alter their minds unbeknownst them. But that would be cheating. I’m not here to be a Deus Ex Machina. We need someone with an abundance of compassion. That eliminates all currently living relatives on your mother’s side, leaving only you and Noah, since Jessica lacks the devoted form of faith you share with your son. You would have been perfect, since you not only have high sensitivity, but also much higher natural resistance.”

“What do you mean, resistance?”

Neda’s eyes suddenly glow completely white. An intense light starts spreading from her back, folding out up above her and to the sides, through the wall. Wings. He can see them as whole, despite them, fully outstretched, being bigger than the room. All _eight_ of them. Four pairs of breathtaking wings made of golden light, and eyes made of light… Tom stares in ecstatic awe. He feels the wave of pleased pride coming from Neda. But then again, an angel is a divine being, worthy of admiration, and can’t be called vainglorious.

Neda folds her wings back in, and lets them disappear. Her eyes remains made of light. “The resistance is what allows you to look at me without dying from euphoria. And, to consider whether I’m vainglorious or not,” she adds with a little smirk. “Noah’s resistance isn’t as high as yours, making his sensitivity higher. I have to adjust it little by little with exposure.” 

_The resistance is also what allows you to hear me so clearly like this. Or recuperate with just a couple of minutes of confusion when I yank you back and forth between alternative timelines._

Neda’s eyes winks out, returning to human hazel.

“That doesn’t explain why it has to be Noah, not me.” In fact, to Tom it sounds like he’s a better choice, based on that explanation.

“Because your journey was supposed to begin outside a little church in Belgium, 1998. But free will is a nuisance, human mistakes were made, and you never got to that place you needed to be, to be able to have that influence on the future you need. You could still do it, but to regain what was lost, I would have to alter the future and put you through hell on Earth, as well as have your family murdered. Believe me, Noah is the better option. Less gore, less innocent people dying. Things like that.”

“What’s he supposed to do?”

“Neatly summed up? Write a new doctrine that in time will replace every other religious doctrine or heavily influence those who’re on the right path. The true results won’t show until a few centuries from now.”

“Like a prophet.”

“Bingo.”

“You’re going to erase my memory of this conversation, aren’t you?” Tom realises.

“You’re bright when you want to be,” Neda agrees.

“How many times have you done that before?”

Neda shrugs. “You figure me out almost every fortnight, sometimes every week. I let you keep the memories you doubt, when you think you’re hallucinating or going mad. I don’t want you to forget me, Tom.”

“But why erase my memory at all? I don’t want to forget you either,” Tom asks, feeling desperate. The childhood memories that are flashing in his mind right now, awakened by Neda’s presence, are precious things that’d keep him afloat when all he wanted was to die. There are other memories popping up, more recent ones. He’d been walking with Neda outside, having a talk like this. A car went past them, going through a deep puddle of slush that splashed right at them. Just as the slush was about to hit, the world suddenly changed, and they were on a tropical beach instead, because Neda didn’t feel like getting dirty. On new year, Neda had showed him her wings. Another time Neda had showed up in the bathroom when he was having a horrible panic attack, decided he couldn’t do this any more, and scrambled for a razor blade to cut his own throat. She had stopped him, muttering about nobody being near enough to send and having to do things herself. That had ended with him with his head rested on her lap while she sang to him in her angelic voice, not like in the car where she used a hybrid between human and angelic voice. Other memories suddenly made sense. The day at the mall, the conversation he’d had with her in his head on new year. He didn’t want to lose any of these memories. He loved Neda endlessly, revered her. Had always done so.

“Like I said, I’m no Deus Ex Machina. You’d rely on me in a way you’re not supposed to when you know, and you’d tell Noah before he is ready to cope with it. I’m here to help with tiny little things, nudge you in the right direction, but you need to do the groundwork by yourselves. Until Noah has understood the magnitude, and why it has to be this way, I can’t let you walk around knowing what I am.”

“What does God want from us?”

Neda gives him one of those sly smirks. “Peace, love, and understanding. Basically, you’re mostly. Screwed.” She chuckles, picking out yet another lollipop. The one with the scorpio this time. “It’s not important that you succeed. If you fail, you’ll destroy the Earth and cause your own extinction. But with this option a couple of species, those who’ve succeeded in their mission, will go on. Earth will flourish once again and continue to do so until the sun gets too big. Your souls will be kept until Father decides to do a remake. Like they have before. Eternity as you think of it, does not exist. Nobody spends an eternity in one single form. You remain in heaven, hell, purgatory, or whatever dimension you get stuck in when your vessel dies, for a very long time sometimes, but not forever. Some souls are quickly reincarnated. As soon as a suitable vessel is born, they’re placed back in the loop.”

“Wait. When it’s _born_?”

“Yes. There is no point putting it in there sooner, now is there? It would be like picking up a tintack and claiming it as your new house. It’s not something you can live in. On top of that, a soul is raw power. That much power could kill a vessel not ready to house it. A lot of miscarriages are the results of souls being stuck in there too soon. Sometimes we wait up to a year after birth until we assign a soul. Especially if the chance of the vessel to survive the first year is next to none. Not all vessels get assigned a soul. There are soulless vessels out there. They learn to emulate human behaviour very well, but lack the full capacity of feelings. They can’t feel love or hate for an instance, only emulate it. They’re the preferred choice when my kind takes a vessel. Nobody likes a pesky backseat driver.”

Tom thinks of the ebony skinned woman he saw Neda as in his mind.

“That isn’t a vessel. It’s my self-image in a human form,” Neda answers as if he’d asked a question. “Not quite as nifty as an actual vessel, even if they are a bit. Leaky.”

A thought hits Tom, something he’s been wondering about. “Did Gabriel tell Muhammed the will of God? Is the quran truly the will of God?”

“Ah. Something you haven’t asked before. Yes. Gabriel spoke with Muhammed. Alas, what ended up in scripture was very convoluted, as it always is. Every religious scripture is. Just like with Jesus, most of what was written was done so by followers. Often distorted by first being passed on by word of mouth, or twisted due to pride. This time around, Noah’s going to write it himself. It will still be distorted. Your son wants to convey the Lord’s wishes, but he’ll change a couple of things, leave some out, for personal reasons. Humans always do. He’ll get the broad strokes right though. Enough to change future history. Possibly.” She raises her head, looking at something far away, eyes becoming made of pure light again. “Enough questions for now. A mistake is about to be made and I need to stop it. Remember, everything can still go terribly wrong.”

“Jesus Christ. You’re just a ball of positivity, aren’t you?”

Neda chuckles and snaps her fin―

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter notes:** I get that everyone has their own picture of Neda in their heads. I've been trying to find a picture of her female form, that matches mine, wanting to do a manip with her eyes of light. 
> 
> I haven't found a perfect one, but I wanted to share some pictures that goes into a category that lines up with how I see her, just because I think she's beautiful. And the problem I came across when searching for a good picture for Neda was a) there are very few pictures of that dark skinned people. b) Too many of them are sexualized, and the way I imagine her is like a warrior, radiating strength and beauty, without the 'fuck me' vibe.
> 
> **So here's a couple of Black Is Beautiful headshots:**
> 
> [One](http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XiLJ4hrIWZo/UD_7v9YfHPI/AAAAAAAAAoM/ZCdJCjhWk5g/s1600/dark+skin2.jpg) [Two](http://solarey.net/wp-content/uploads/2014/12/shades-of-beauty-07.jpg) [Three](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/3d/42/6d/3d426d41df7834fa8d2e18632139e372.jpg) [Four](http://thefabweb.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/7595824644_d91a942321_b-900x900.jpg) [Five](http://29.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lgja1lCppL1qf6c4oo1_500.jpg)
> 
> If you picture Neda "black" as Rihanna, or Beyoncé, it's all up to you. But these women all veer off into how I see Neda.


	44. For Whom The Bell Tolls...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's only so much a man can take before he snaps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Offscreen minor character death.
> 
>  **Chapter Notes:** We're just one chapter away from a long awaited re-appearance. ;)
> 
> Also,
> 
> Guys. I'm a lover of AUs. I love them, alright? The idea of a billion parallel worlds where anything can happen really appeals to me. I read almost any type of 'verse except for canon'verse, which I leave to TV to mess up. I love to see characters re-invented and re-shaped depending on their circumstances, and see what remains of their original selves. In this chapter, which is a bit surreal in a part, there's a small excerpt from one of my other (unpublished) stories. I personally think that story is my dirtiest, worst re-interpretations I've done of characters. The story is a Ducifer + Dean/Michael story and Noah makes a cameo. Part of that cameo is stuck in here. For reasons. You'll see.

## Spring 2015

* * *

**March - April 22nd, 2015**

This weekend Tom goes to compete out of state. Noah doesn’t join him as he’ll be gone several days and won’t be home until Tuesday.

Despite finding some measure of inner calm at home, he feels a sense of freedom mixed with the loneliness when he rolls into town. There are several houses sporting rainbow flags alongside the American flag, and when he stops to get something to eat he finds that most businesses has some form of rainbow sticker on their window or door, saying things like ‘Jesus loves everyone’, ‘I love my Guns and my Gays’, ‘We serve every patrons of every ethnicity, religion, and sexuality’. He’s in bumfuck, Missouri, old hillbillies in rocking chairs on their porches, crosses or pictures of Jesus and Mary on the wall of almost every restaurant he looks into, pickup trucks in the parking lots, plaid or sweatpants as the peak of stylishness, and he’s _welcome_.

He could move here just for the sense of being accepted.

He enters a fifties diner that seems to be a family business and sits down by the counter. “You here to shoot, sugar?” the waitress asks while he waits for the order.

“I am.”

“You any good?”

Tom smiles. “Up there with the best of them,” he says.

“Oooh. Are you now? You’re gonna have to prove yourself. My husband, Rod’s shootin’ too. I bet he’ll make you eat those words,” she says with a cheeky smile and a wink.

“He’s welcome to try, ma’am. That’s why I’m here.”

She chuckles. “That’s the spirit,” she says and serves him his lunch platter.

“Say, what’s up with all the rainbows? I feel like I got lost on the way and ended up in the San Francisco Bay area,” he asks while cutting his sausage.

“You ain’t looking to start somethin’, are you, sugar?” she retorts, eyeing him suspiciously. Guarded hostility draping around her like a cloak.

Tom decides to be bold. He can always leg it to the car if necessary. “Not unless a guy’s willing and single, ma’am,” he says with a smirk and wiggles his eyebrows. 

The waitress lets out a laugh. “Well, that certainly puts another spin on it.” She smiles, the hostility gone as soon as it came. “The mayor in the city got into his head to pass a local law that allowed the hospital to deny Mackie and Randy help when they were bit by the Croatoan. Then Little Jimmy was denied vaccine. We don’t take lightly on them city boys pickin’ on our own. I don’t care who people do the hokey pokey with. Decent people should be treated decently, end of story. So we decided to fight back and make a statement. We’re trying to get jurisdiction over our town. Can’t have them city boys fuckin’ with us. They even sent a patrol car this way to calm us down. Would you believe that, sugar? One police car to pacify 1300 angry townsfolk, all armed.” She chuckles and shakes her head. “Now it’s calmed down. We’re just signing petitions and appeals that stops anything from being done in the mayor’s office until they start actin’ like decent people or allow us to govern ourselves. Speak of the devil,” she says and smiles brightly towards the door. “Little Jimmy! Tell your mama thanks for the pie.”

Tom turns to to watch the man that just entered. Little Jimmy is _huge_. 6’8” tall and built like a brick wall, probably a few years younger than Tom, around 34-35 perhaps. Tom doesn’t get how anyone would dare deny this man anything. Just looking at his hands…

“I’ll do that, Rosie. She asked if you liked it just this mornin’.”

“Sure did, honey. The usual?”

“Yep,” Jimmy answers. He’s blond with stubble and warm brown eyes to bely the otherwise intimidating appearance. Jimmy sits down by the counter and throws a look Tom’s way. Tom gives him a flirty smile, trusting Rosie’s statement about him being gay.

“Watch out for that one, Jimmy, he’s flyin’ on your radar,” Rosie jokes and pours Jimmy some coffee.

Jimmy looks surprised, so Tom decides to introduce himself. “Hi, I’m Tom,” he says and offers his hand.

“I’ll be damned,” Jimmy says as he grips Tom’s hand in a surprisingly gentle grip, considering how he looks like he could crush rocks with those gigantic hands. “I know who you are.” Jimmy’s eyes twinkle excitedly.

“Y’all know each other?” Rosie asks curiously.

“No. I don’t know a lot, Rosie, but I know hockey. And this right here is Thomas Rainsborough, the greatest player to ever play in the Ice Bears,” Jimmy says beaming, still holding Tom’s hand.

“Really? I never heard they had a gay player in the Ice Bears,” Rosie says, looking at Tom inquisitively.

Tom’s getting nervous. “No, ma’am. And I’d appreciate if you’d keep it that way. Where I’m from people like me get killed.”

“Now that’s a cryin’, damned shame.” Rosie leans over the counter, directing herself to another man Tom hadn’t seen, sitting with a laptop in a corner booth. “You hear that, Jack? Don’t you go writin’ ‘bout this, you hear?”

“Don’t y’all worry. I write news, not gossip,” Jack answers and goes back to his laptop.

“Journalist?” Tom asks, fear making his pulse race.

“Don’t you worry, sugar. We’re good folks over here,” Rosie tells him.

“Yep, good ol’ Jack won’t write anythin’ about you that you’ll need to fear,” Jimmy assures him.

Tom’s not convinced. But a while later he’s nevertheless engaged in a heavily flirty conversation with Jimmy. “Outsiders incomin’,” Jack alerts them. Jimmy immediately shuffles a little bit further away and drops the flirtiness. A moment later a couple comes into the diner and Rosie greets them with a friendly smile.

“You want to continue this talk somewhere private?” Jimmy asks.

“Yes, that would be nice,” Tom agrees.

That’s how he finds himself both a lover and a place to stay for the extended weekend. Not only that, the townspeople got their backs. Even the journalist. During the competition Jack seeks him out, gives him a rundown on who to keep his sexuality hidden from, and who has a green light to keep the secret, out of the press that can be found there. During the evenings he and Jimmy go to a local bar that lies in the outskirts of town and asides from him, there are only locals. Although the crowd and the conversation is what he expects when hearing ‘hillbilly’, the attitude isn’t. It’s so liberating to be sitting in a full bar, in a group of people, tucked under the arm of his date, talking, without anybody acting as if it’s out of place when two men cuddle, dance, or share the occasional kiss in public. He wishes he could do this back home. He wishes he was out. He wishes he wasn’t married and laden with responsibilities. He wishes he didn’t have to sleep alone anymore. 

Jimmy ‘the friendly giant’ (as Tom dubs him in his head) is fully aware and and accepting of the fact of this is just a weekend fling, but he acts like a boyfriend, sweet and wonderful in all kinds of ways, mimicking the intimacy and love that Tom’s always craved. He’s also the biggest man Tom’s ever been with, body mass wise. Tom’s dick feels normal sized in Jimmy’s giant hands, he feels petite, being the little spoon. It’s a foreign feeling, and he likes it. Their size difference makes people assume Jimmy’s ‘the man’ in the pair, and Tom doesn’t mind. It lifts a whole range of expectations off his shoulders. He could tell people it doesn’t work like that. Both men are men in a gay relationship. But he feels free. It’s not a battle he wants to pick. And if he happens to dream of another pair of warm brown eyes, ringed by dark lashes instead of blond ones, when he looks into Jimmy’s eyes, nobody has to know.

Returning to ‘the real world’ is bittersweet. He feels like he’s been on a three weeks’ relaxing spa retreat instead of a four day trip to shoot. The fact that he won every round he entered feels like a small, unimportant parenthesis. Anxiety starts amping up with every mile closer to home. He’s been up for air and now he’s diving back into the cold dark depths again.

* * *

The snow is melting. Spring flowers are starting to poke their way out of the earth anywhere the ground’s been cleared. The yards of the converts seems extra dotted with flowers. Tom tries not to think about that. He’s fallen into a state of defeat. Puts an X over each day on the calendar as if he’s counting down to something, but at this point he’s counting down until he can buy a new calendar. His mood might be more even, but it doesn’t feel like a good thing. He sleeps as much as he can, trying to get days to pass. He’s back to smiling for the cameras. He has more energy to do chores at home, knows how many painkillers he has to pop to be able to stand conversing with people or handling crowds without having panic attacks. Avoids news and obediently watches any cute or funny videos Noah still shows him. He serves Noah as his son needs. He feels empty. A mindless drone, learning to live with his new handicap (the depression, not his leg).

The first time he himself is denied service in a store by a non-convert he just leaves his wares and goes to his car to drive to the next store. He doesn’t even think twice about it. It’s not like it’s his first time being discriminated against. If people don’t want to sell him stuff, he doesn’t want to give them his money. End of story. He doesn’t mention it at home.

The store that denied Grace service is being overrun with cockroaches. Their fruits and vegetables rot exceedingly fast, their milk sours. Tom tries not to think about that.

Driving Noah to one of the churches he spots an antique store. The next day he goes back there, making the two hour drive without second thought. He finds one of those glass floats, three in a row, netted together, that John had. He buys it, intending it as a gift. On his way home he reminds himself he’s never going to see John again. He hangs it up over his bed. Supposedly, he’s got self-torture down to an art by now.

Then something happens that hits him like a kick in the groin.

* * *

His mother calls incessantly one day. He doesn’t pick up. Then the doorbell rings, and he goes to open it. Outside, his mother’s standing, all red eyed from crying. His instant reaction is a twinge of painful sympathy, seeing her sorrow. Then red anger washes any goodwill feelings away. He crosses his arms over his chest, blocking entrance. “What do you want?” he asks coldly.

“Thomas! Something terrible has happened! Your father… he’s _dead_ ,” she sobs.

Tom feels himself get both hot and cold at the same time. Mind grinding to a halt. “So? It was bound to happen sooner or later. Why’d you come to me for? I can hardly do anything about it.”

His mother sucks in a shocked breath and covers her gaping mouth, staring wide eyed at him like he just stabbed her. “T-t-thomas?”

“You’ve treated me like shit. Never once have you tried to put yourself in my place. Never once have you apologised. You only talk about me ‘coming to my senses’. Well, I _have_. You’re shit parents. Twice, I’ve tried to take my own life. That’s _your_ fault. It’s _your_ fault that I lost my faith in God. It took my own son having _God damned revelations_ to restore it. I don’t know why you thought coming here would be a good idea. What do you hope to achieve? Sympathy? Comfort? Apologies? I’ve never gotten it from you, so why the hell would I offer it? You can go to Hell, the both of you. _Oops._ Dad already has. One down, one to go,” he says, face screwing up in a cruel mimicry of a smile. His pulse is pounding so hard he can barely hear beyond the whooshing noise in his ears.

Tears well up in his mother’s stunned, dismayed eyes. She shakes her head like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. “What did we ever do to you?” she breathes.

“You want a list? I can give you one. It’ll take a couple of weeks to write, because it’s going to be a long one,” he says, merciless.

His mother’s shoulders hunch over, shaking with sobs. She’s crying in earnest, obliterated. Looking at him with such hurt and grief…

“Christ. I can’t even look at you,” he sneers and slams the door shut.

He turns around, the whooshing in his ears getting louder. Temperature going back and forth from hot to cold in his body. There’s a mad cackling in his head, and it isn’t his.

 _That’s right, child! Kick a man while she’s down,_ the voice says gleefully.

“Shut up.”

He stares around him, unseeing. His father’s dead and he’s going mad.

_It’s such a delight seeing this side of you. I knew you had it in you, Tom. But the chance of you unleashing it was 1 in 10,000. Brilliant!_

“Piss off!”

His father’s dead. He’s never coming back.

_Would you want him to? It’d stir up quite a commotion, you know?_

“No! I said fuck off!”

His father is dead. He’s never coming back. He just did the cruelest thing he’s purposefully done in his entire life. 

_A thing of beauty. Really._

“ _Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!_ ”

He’s talking to voices in his head. He’s going mad. Caught up in a maelstrom of emotions, head spinning.

 _One voice, Tom._ One _voice. Get it right._

“Now’s not the time. Stop talking to me.”

The voice is quiet, but it doesn’t stop the feeling of vicious glee coming from its source.

Madness.

The image of his mother’s shattered expression makes him want to turn around and comfort her, but the moment he thinks that the red rage wells up again, stopping him. _That’s_ coming from him, and has nothing to do with the voice and its malicious pleasure.

_That’s right, Tom. You do you. I’m just along for the ride._

He covers his ears, like that’d shut the voice out. He’s trembling. It isn’t working. He feels nauseous. His father’s dead. His father’s dead. His father’s dead. _How_ can his father be dead???

_Heart attack._

“Did you do it?” he asks aloud. He’s not sure who he’s asking or why he’s talking to an imaginary voice.

 _Of course not. People die. It happens,_ the voice says petulantly. _I did send him to Hell, like you wanted though._

“Jesus Christ.”

 _Aww. Not even a thank you?_ the voice mock pouts.

Tom shakes his head, trying to get his thoughts in order. He can’t. He just feels _too damned much_. He goes to the kitchen, more or less on auto pilot. Finds his painkillers and pops three, dry swallowing. 

The voice tuts. _You're just going to throw them up, child. A terrible waste._

It’s not enough. His head is spinning out of control with thoughts. He takes two more. 

_You're not listening to me, Tom. Why aren't you listening? Very well. 10...9...8...7…_

His nausea is getting worse, cold sweat breaking out. It’s hard to breathe. He just all but spat on his mother. 

_6...5...4…_

His father is dead. His parents married when his mother was 16 and his father 18. They’d been together for all their lives and he just― 

_3...2...1!_

Tom's stomach turns. Luckily he's right by the sink. He hangs over it, emptying the content of his stomach. It’s not much. Mostly bile thanks to his meagre diet of as-little-as-he-can-get-away-with-when-someone’s-watching. And the painkillers. Of course. 

_I told you so, didn't I?_

“Shut _uuuup_ ,” he whines pitifully and starts the water running. His stomach heaves a couple of more times, until nothing more comes up. He drinks water to rinse his mouth then cleans the sink out with a paper towel, throwing it away.

 _Aah. Sweet and frail like a flower. You know, I’ve always been fascinated with how your emotions translate into physical symptoms,_ the voice muses amicably.

Tom goes for his pills again, taking the four pills left on the blister strip. He’s got one pack left before he needs to renew his prescription. It’s a wonder the doctors aren’t protesting. This time he swallows it with water.

A memory flashes in his mind, so old it’s just a fuzzy snapshot. Him, standing on the side of a frozen lake, his father’s arm around his midriff to keep him from falling. He’s pointing at a group of men playing hockey, hand stuck in a thick blue mitt, the feeling of utter elation so vast it’s burned the memory in forever. “Daddy! Eye kates! Eye kates!” he shouts in delight, turning his head to look at his father’s warmly grinning face.

 _Aaand now, for the alcohol,_ the voice narrates a moment before Tom hurries over to take a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet, uncork it, and drink straight from the bottle, trying to ignore the voice chuckling.

Another fuzzy memory. Almost just as old, but this time they’re at the local ice rink. He’s wearing his own pair of ‘eye kates’. He’s got the whole skating thing down, he thinks, not falling over so much. He has a club in his hand, doing a decent job of getting a puck towards the goal. There are _really old_ guys trying to take it from him, but he feints (in retrospect, the guys were probably in their late teens/early twenties) and shoots. The puck glides towards the goal, the goalie, another big guy, throws himself to stop it, but misses! He _scores_! Jubilantly happy he skates towards the board where his father’s watching with a smile on his face. “ _Daddy! Daddy!_ Dih you see me? I scored!”

_Not to rain on your parade, child, but the power of denial and blocking out trauma from memories is something humans are exceedingly good at. It’s more to it than you allow yourself to remember._

His body aches from strain. His feet hurt, going numb. He’s sweaty, and the gear is chafey in places. The sound of skates on ice, pucks being hit, and a coach hollering something to a player echoes in the rink. The smell of his own sweat along with the chilly smell of ice mixes in his nostrils. On the other side of the rink the big boys’ team is practising slap shots. A couple of guys have taken their time to play with him, enticed by his unbridled enthusiasm. He just scored, and is jubilantly happy, pride in every cell of his body! He scored, with a goalie and everything! He skates towards the board where his father’s watching with a smile on his face. “ _Daddy! Daddy!_ Dih you see me? I scored!”

His father smiles at him. “You didn’t _really_ score, son. The goalie let the puck in to be nice to you. It’ll be years until you’re good enough to be of any use to anyone out there on the ice.”

He stops, feeling like he had his gut punched. The glow of happiness snuffed out. “No, dad. Din’t you _see_ me?”

“I saw alright, son.”

The next moment one of the big guys comes careering, scooping him up, whooping. “ _Woohooo!_ Thomas Rainsborough scored! The next star in ChHL!” the guy hollers, lifting him up on his shoulders. Tom throws one last look at his dad to see him grinning in amusement, then another big guy comes thundering into them, hugging him, then another.

“You da man, squirt! _You da man_!” one of them says.

The pride returns with the celebration. His dad must have just misunderstood. The guy who lifted him onto his shoulders lowers him to hold him against his hip so he can meet Tom’s eyes. His name is Tony, and he’s _awesome_! He beams as proudly as Tom. “Some day, Tom, some day you’re going to play in the ChHL. Mark my words, they’ll be chanting your name.”

Tom shakes his head in confusion as the sounds and smells of the ice rink is traded for his kitchen and the lingering whiskey taste in his mouth. “NOO! Leave me alone!”

His father had driven him to the rink every day, without complaint.

_Why complain? Tony was always there, eager to train you for three or four hours so your father could run errands._

“Stop it. _Please,_ ” Tom says, eyes burning with tears and lump growing in his throat. He takes another swig of whiskey, throws the cork in the sink and wanders aimlessly out of the kitchen.

A memory of falling, scraping his knee when he learned to ride a bike. His mom coming to scoop him up. He’s crying, more from fear than pain. She blows gently on his knee and places a tender kiss on it. Making him feel safer, comforted.

_Another fractured memory, Tom. Tommy. Tomley. You’re not even trying here._

Once again he’s suddenly there. His knee hurts like hell and adrenaline from fear courses through his body. The sun is hot on his skin, air filled of the perfume from summer flowers. He sobs loudly, reaching out for a hug. His mom gets to her feet, without hugging him. “Quit crying, Thomas. Real men don’t cry.”

 _But you weren’t a man, now were you? You were an embryo that one day would grow up to be a man. Such a young child should not be held against the same expectations as an adult. It’s a miracle that you turned out as compassionate as you did. I’ll make a confession. You were the first draft pick for five ChHL teams the year you were about to turn eighteen. I had to block them from getting you, because if I hadn’t, you would have stayed in Pine Glen. And do you know what would have happened if you’d stayed? You would have turned out_ exactly _like your parents._

The sudden shift between the summer sidewalk to standing in his living room gives him mental whiplash. “Why are you doing this? I thought you _liked_ me.” Tear keeps welling up in his eyes, running freely down his face, his hands are shaking and his stomach is in knots.

He gets a sense of confusion. _What do you mean? I’m comforting you._

“It’s no God damned comfort! There’s no excuse for what I did to my mother, just now!”

_Sure it is. Tom. I’m not just a glorified communication device, you know? I’m a weapon, a warrior. I’m vindictive. It’s in our nature, how Father created us to be. You were my charge, and you may not remember it, but you tried taking your own life when you were five and a half, because you felt you couldn’t live up to their standards. You wanted to help them make their lives better. So you climbed the desk you had by the window, opened it, and flung yourself out. It’s another blocked out memory. I’ll show it to you._

“No. Don’t y―“

He’s sitting on his bed, head between his drawn up knees, hugging himself, crying. He’s hungry. They’d had brussel sprouts for dinner and he couldn’t stand the taste without gagging. He’d been sent to his room without dinner since he refused to eat them. His mother’s disappointed voice ringing in his head. ‘It’s a shame you can’t send children back to the manufacturer and get a new one.’ He doesn’t know where children are made, or if there’s a limit to how many you may have. Perhaps if he was dead, they’d get a new, better one. They’d be happy then. They’d be pleased with him, for finally doing something right. Yesterday he’d played in the living room and accidentally knocked over mom’s pretty vase. It had broken into a thousand pieces. Mom hadn’t said anything, just sighed and sent him to play in his room. Today there had been a frog. He’d found it in the yard and waded into a puddle to retrieve it. Then he’d excitedly run to show it to mom and the ladies at her tea party. Frogs are awesome and can jump really far. He put it on the table proudly. It had taken one long jump and landed right on the cake so whipped cream splattered everywhere. Everybody started screaming and mom had been really mad. Dad had laughed when he came home and mom told him, but he’d still gotten a scolding. He doesn’t know how to do anything right. They’d be better off without him. 

They’d told him he wasn’t allowed to climb on the desk. He could fall out the window and die. He lifts his head, still sobbing, and looks at the window. If he’s dead, they’ll get a new, better child, from the manufacturer. He’s sure of it. That’s what happened when their TV didn’t work. He climbs down from his bed…

_Do I have to go on? I can show you the whole memory, but it’s rather. Uncomfortable._

“Jesus Christ! Shit! Just stop it!” He takes a deep drink from the whiskey and wanders upstairs. Thoughts whirling, feelings all over the place. “You’re lying to me!” he accuses the voice. He’s gone mad. He understands that. But there’s nobody else to talk to. Nobody’s here. He’s alone. Cruel, cold, depraved. 

_Sometimes, yes. But these are memories plucked straight from the darkest corners of your brain. I just fling you back to when they went down, so you can take a closer, unveiled, look._

It continues like that. Memory upon memory is countered by being put into its original context. Tom drinks more and more, trying to silence the voice. It doesn’t work. He’s finally lost it for real. His father’s dead. How is his father dead? 

_Oh dear. Do I need to explain to you how death occurs? Okay. So the vessel stops working. When it can no longer send the signals that keeps it habitable for a soul, it dies, whether it houses a soul or not. Then it starts to decompose. You know, ashes to ashes, shit to shit._ The voice sniggers and Tom makes a pained noise. _That’s right. Your father is decomposing now. A useless shell beginning to rot,_ the voice purrs. _Although, from my point of view, it was already rotten. Corrupted by the soul it housed._

“Just like me.”

_Now, now, child. Do you really think I’d perch on your shoulder if you were corrupted? Flawed, of course. All humans are. That’s what makes you interesting. Perfection is boring in its splendor. ….don’t tell the Sword I said that._

“Yes you would. You’re clearly evil,” Tom states flatly, ignoring the incomprehensible statement about ‘the Sword’.

The voice scoffs. _Talking about me like I was a lowly demon. You think I’m evil? Watch this._

He’s in the yard outside his parents house…

* * *

When Grace comes home he’s sitting in the middle of the stairs, head leaned against the bannister, staring at nothing and holding onto the neck of the empty bottle. His eyes are red from crying, tear tracks drying on his face. His gaze and demeanor is as empty as the bottle he‘s holding, but on the inside he’s full of grief, pain, and _rage_.

Grace is angry. “Is it true? Did you do that to your mom?” she asks from the bottom of the stairs, hands fisted on her hips.

“Yes,” he answers flatly. To him it feels like it’s been weeks since he spewed vitriol on his grieving mother. Every vivid hallucination he’s had of memories seemed to move in real time. Some of them were long. Like the week long vacation to Aspen when he was ten. Every hallucination felt so real. Every bruise, every sunburn, mosquito bite, every cut or scrape was felt, every smell, every sensation, felt _real_. Like their vacation in Aspen. Where he’d wandered off by himself, run into a couple of guys snowboarding. The sport was still rare and exotic and he’d gotten to try it. He was _good at it_. It was one of those things, just like skating, that came naturally to him. He grasped how he had to move straight away, after a brief explanation. It was so fun! When his parents found him they’d been mad at him. More mad because snowboarding was ‘inappropriate’ than for him to have disappeared. On top of that, his mother had been sure one of the snowboarders was a sodomite.

He was good at skiing too. It wasn’t quite as fun, but fun too. The trip was one of his really good memories, but being flung into a hallucination of re-living it, had showed him how much shame, guilt, and disappointment he’d felt. How hard he’d tampered down every disappointment, trying hard not to think of them, trying to make up for every perceived mistake he made, while being riddled by the familiar worms of anxiety. Too familiar, even back then.

Flung back into here and now, scrutinizing everything from an adult perspective, he was horrified and enraged. If the hallucinations were true―like the voice in his head assured him they were―as opposed to his ‘normal’ memories, his normal memories were heavily censored to leave out negative feelings and put his parents in a better light. But then again, he couldn’t exactly trust one hallucination to validate another hallucination as true. Most likely his brain was just trying to justify his own unacceptable cruelty to his mother.

 _I see. We’re having trust issues, are we?_ the voice says, brimming with amusement.

 _Shut up._ It won’t. It’s relentless.

“Oh, my, God. Tom, are you _out of your mind_? I know that you and your parents have problems, but that’s unacceptable! You don’t do something like that to someone who just lost the love of their life!” Grace sputters.

“Seems I did,” he states flatly.

“Jesus Christ! Tom! How drunk are you?”

“Not drunk enough. Now will you kindly piss off?”

“Will _I_ piss off? You’ve gone too far, Tom. Cheating and drinking is one thing. But I won’t tolerate this petty meanness. Get out of my house.”

Everything goes red. Tom gets to his feet and hurls the bottle at the side of Grace. It flies by her head, close enough to stir her hair with its draft, and shatters to pieces on the wall behind. She sucks in a shocked breath, eyes wide in sudden fear. He’s never given her a reason to fear him before. Never. 

Until now. 

He staggers downstairs on unstable legs, pulse whooshing in his ears. “ _Your_ house? The house is mine. I’ve paid for it. You want it so bad, you can divorce me, and I’ll give it to you. Until then I’ll do what the fuck I want in _my_ house. And if you’d just let me _fucking go_ , I wouldn’t _have_ to cheat on you,” he sneers. Advancing menacingly (albeit unstably) on her. She backs up with every two steps he takes down the stairs, eyes wide and disbelieving. This isn’t him.

 _Sure it is. Even the most docile creature will turn to violence when pushed too far. You’d choose death before violence, but death is constantly denied to you, so here you are, baring your fangs, getting ready to rip into her,_ the voice says, unhelpfully.

“Shut up,” he tells the voice. Grace thinks he’s talking to her. Glass crunches under her (thankfully still shoed) feet as she backs up. Tears starts to glaze her eyes. It’s tears from fear and shock. “What’s the matter, honey? Didn’t think your pet could bite?” Tom growls, reaching the bottom of the stairs.

“Tom. Stop. You’re scaring me,” Grace says, voice warbly.

“God damn right, you should be scared of me. All those times you hit me, threw things at me. Never once did I defend myself. But I can, Grace. I _can_. I’m sick and tired of being pushed around and treated like dirt. I don’t deserve it. I’m so tired of trying to fake it. I’ve had it, Grace. I’m done with it. You push me, I’ll fucking push back this time.”

Grace backs up, hitting the wall with her back, chest heaving with fear. “Tom, you’re insane. Stop it,” she begs.

He lets out a humourless laugh, showing teeth, honing in on her, fully intent to unleashing everything he’s been withholding.

“Dad. Stop. Go to your room.” Noah’s stern voice breaks through the red haze enough for him to halt his advance. He throws a glance at the hallway where Noah’s standing, straightbacked and stern, pointing at the door to the den.

Tom grunts, turns on his heel and stumbles towards the den, obediently. Not chastised in any way, but he’s sane enough to see an out when he gets one. He just wants to be left alone. He steps inside the door, shuts and locks it behind him, leans his head against the door. He can hear their voices through the door.

“You okay, mom?”

“Jesus Christ! We should call the police. Your dad has lost it.” 

“No. Mom, dad’s grieving. Think. He’s always keeping things in. If even half of what you two have told me is true, then no matter how sweet Nana and Gramps have been to us, there must be a thousand things they’ve done to dad that we don’t know, because dad hasn’t told us. Dad’s an abuse victim, mom. With a very complicated relationship to his abusers. Let’s just leave him alone.”

“But he’s dangero―“

Tom starts walking down the stairs, gripping the bannisters. Let the police come. He could point his unloaded gun at them and let them send him to Hell.

How did his son get so God damned old so fast anyway? He’s _eighteen_ for crying out loud. He shouldn’t be able to rationalise that maturely.

_Having the Lord tell him to listen and put himself in another's shoes helps. You have no idea how many dark stories he’s gotten to hear since he stood up in church that day in November last year. He keeps most of it in, only venting to you when he really needs to. I can reveal that those psychology books you recommended he read, is a major factor as to why he assesses your breakdown as he does. Your son knows you better than you might suspect._

“Shut up. I’m not talking to you.”

The voice sniggers. _Then who are you talking to? Tom. Thomas. Tombo. These attempts at denial are pathetic._

“You’re not real. Go away.” He can’t believe he just threatened Grace, fully intent on hurting her.

All he gets is amusement and a burst of affection. _That man, that met Grace on the stairs? That’s who you would have become, had you stayed here. Your parents would have made sure of it._

“No. Never,” he denies.

The voice chuckles. _I’ll show you._

He’s standing in the kitchen, watching Grace cook, annoyance itching under his skin. Jessi’s sitting by the kitchen table, writing an essay. She goes to the nearest college and still lives at home. Peter’s at football practise and Abigail’s still in the stable. They know the rules. Work hard and be home by 7 pm to eat. None of those inappropriate business Noah used to be up to. It’s been two years since Noah ran away from home. He watches Grace pick spices for the stew and scowls. “Don’t use nutmeg. It’s not good for the child,” he says.

Grace ducks her head and places a protective hand over her round belly, side eyeing him nervously. It annoys him even further. He’d never punish her while she’s pregnant with his child. Even though she deserves it. She keeps doing mistakes although she should know better. “Sorry,” she says, not daring to meet his eyes.

He grunts. At least all the kids turned out fine. Except Noah. He feels a modicum of guilt about that. The sodomite gene must have passed on, no matter how much he’s fought off his evil urges― 

“STOP!” he’s covered with sweat, breathing raggedly, gripping his hair, pulling hard to stave off the fearful panic, standing in the middle of the floor in the den.

He gets a sense of the voice being excited and impressed. _That’s new. I’ve never encountered a human that can jump back from a timeline like that._

 

“I’d never turn into that! What happened to Noah?” 

_Ouch. Do you really want to find out? You’d never see him again, so I’d have to let you see it from somebody else’s eyes. That can be a quite. Unamusing. Experience._

“Yes! Just show me, damn you!”

_You asked for it._

* * *

The twink, a blonde young man―barely legal by the looks of it―keeps making doe eyes at him across the bar. The twink’s dressed in black skinny jeans and a red tee with a band logo on it. Not his favourite kind of outfit, but hey. It’s not the wrapping he wants to fuck. 

He sidles up to the twink and gives him a lopsided smile paired with a _how-you-doin’_ nod when their eyes meet. “Hey, handsome. How's it hanging?”

“Better, now that you’re here, daddy,” the blond guy counters with a seductive smirk, turning his back to the bar disk and hanging off it on his elbows, legs splayed invitingly.

_Woah. Daddy, huh?_

Okay, so that’s not really his thing. But then again, he’s not one to kink-shame. Whatever floats your boat, right? And the guy doesn’t even require being chatted up by the looks of it. So if it means he’s getting laid, he can be a daddy for the night. “How old are you, boy?” he asks and reaches out to brush the guy’s lower lip with his thumb.

“Twenty one.”

“It says so on your ID?”

“Mmhm…” the guy says, and boldly sucks in his thumb in his mouth, swirling his tongue around it.

And he’s so on board with that.

Furthermore, his cock is rapidly waking up and paying attention. He steps in between the blond guy’s legs, slides a hand up his hip and in under the shirt. “You got a name, kid?”

“Noah,” the twink says, letting him smear saliva on his lower lip with the thumb he just sucked.

“You wanna be a good boy for daddy, Noah?” he asks and runs his hand on the soft unblemished skin of Noah’s stomach. He sees it in the young man’s eyes that, yes, he wants that indeed. Instead of waiting for an answer he leans in and whispers in Noah’s ear, grazing the shell with his lips. “You wanna suck daddy’s cock? Be a good boy, and let daddy bend you in half, fuck you senseless?” He feels the guy shiver and hears his breath hitch. The guy is a gazelle in the jaws of his lion.

“Yes, daddy. Please,” Noah breathes. He feels an ugly disdain for the guy, a reflection of how he feels about himself. He kisses the guy. The guy tastes like prey. A too easy target, blind to all the aggression, self-loathing, and hate for the world that’s simmering under the surface of his pretty face. Noah’s no lion like Nick, he’s not even a predator like Michael. He’s a rabbit sitting still, waiting to be torn to shreds by either fox _or_ hound. And he doesn’t even know it.

He kisses his way down Noah’s neck and throws a look across the bar where Nick’s been macking on some woman, just to find Nick watching him intently with an unreadable expression. “Meet me outside, we’ll go somewhere,” he tells Noah and extracts himself. As soon as Noah’s gone towards the exit, he makes his way to Nick, taking his dog tags off as he goes. Something inside of him protests, screaming that he just made himself totally naked. Which is the point. 

“Dean. The hell are you doing?”

“What’s it look like? I'm getting laid tonight, Nick.”

“What about Mikey?”

“He's probably getting laid tonight too.” Nick looks pissed, so he goes on. “Face it, Nick. He’s fucking _engaged_. Somewhere out there, there's a fucking cunt with _my_ ring on her finger. I'm nothing but Mike's _whore_. He ain’t here, and you've made it clear, repeatedly, that you don't wanna fuck me. So fuck him, and fuck you. I don't owe any of you anything you don't wanna give back. He doesn’t want to give me fidelity, and you don't want my body. That makes me single as fuck when he’s outta town.” 

There it is again. The ugly black thing in his veins, that makes him feel like he wants to set the world on fire and watch it burn. The anger at everyone, for treating him like the piece of trash he is. It’s not fucking fair. Nick looks pissed and something else that he can’t interpret. He wishes Nick was as eager to be with him as Noah is. He would gladly call _him_ daddy, Sir, miss, or anything else Nick wants, if he'd just want it. 

Nick’s jaws clenches. “You’re not a whore, Dean.”

“Sure I am. Here. Keep these safe for me,” he says and hangs his dog tags around Nick's neck. For some reason the gesture makes his heart flutter. 

“Why?”

“Because there’s no one else I'd trust with em, and they got my name on em.” He intended to pat-slap Nick’s cheek before walking away, instead he ends up stroking it. Then he hurries towards the exit. 

Instead of taking Noah home, he takes him to a shady motel that takes cash and lets you rent by the hour. He pays for the whole night, calling himself Sam, not wanting use his own name. 

He and Noah stumble inside the room kissing. He compares every touch and taste with Michael and Nick. Noah doesn’t measure up, but every new person comes with their own thrills. “Hey, you wanna bump some snow?” Noah asks. 

He honestly, have no idea what Noah’s talking about, but he’s drunk and suggestible. “Sure.”

The twink extracts himself and digs out a small bag of coke from his pocket. He is immediately intrigued. He’s never snorted coke before―the idea wouldn't even have crossed his mind during his army days. Or the time after his discharge. But everything has changed. Michael’s engaged and Nick doesn’t want him. He’s nothing to no one. Nothing to lose, everything to gain. 

So it's with a mix of trepidation and anticipation he takes the rolled up dollar bill from Noah after the kid has set two lines up and snorted one. “You really are a good boy for daddy, huh?” he jokes. 

Noah laughs. “Yeah. Except for my real dad. Apparently, doing drugs and fucking guys isn’t the ‘Christian thing to do’,” he says, somewhere between amused and bitter. Whatever. He doesn’t give a shit about Noah’s daddy issues.

* * *

“ _ **NOOOO!!!**_ ” Tom rips himself out of the vision, stumbling in circles in the middle of the room, searching for someone or something to fight. He would never, _NEVER_ let Noah end up in the claws of the malicious, violently intending predator whose mind he just shared. He saw where it was heading, read the feral, ugly thoughts behind the mask of the man. There wasn’t a single world where he’d drive his son into circumstances like that. NeverNeverNever!

 _We had to go to an alternate universe to see this particular scene play out, that’s true,_ the voice agrees. _Not just leave the timeline. I’m sure you recognised some of the other people in that vision, that would not have been in it, in this timeline. Too many personal choices, too far back in time, to end up exactly like this. But even if we’d stayed in this universe and hopped a timeline to where you stayed in Pine Glen, Noah would still end up dying before his 24th birthday. Either beaten to death or overdosing on drugs. Your parents would have broken you, Tom. Turned you into a monster._

Tom’s legs give way, tears coming again. It’s too much, too surreal. His father’s dead and he doesn’t know how to feel about it.

 _You should be proud, child. You grew up good, kind, and strong. And this talent of yours is astounding. You should not be able to tear yourself out of a vision like this. You shouldn’t be able to understand that it_ is _a vision, not the real reality._

“None of this is real. Go away. My parents weren’t that bad. My accusations were false. It’s not their fault I tried to commit suicide. Mom didn’t deserve what I did to her. I’m an adult man, I can make my own decisions,” he sobs.

 _Oh, can you now?_ the voice scoffs skeptically. _Because from what I’ve seen you’ve barely made a single decision that can count as your own. Let’s see, there’s slamming the door on your parents, and sticking by that decision. There’s flirting with John, and starting a relationship with Justin. Apart from that, all I’ve seen is obedience. You’re always doing what you think is good for others._

“Is there anything wrong with that?”

_What you think is good for others isn’t necessarily the truth. I’d prefer if you started to make some choices based on what you yourself need. Then we wouldn’t have to put up with blow ups like this one. I’m afraid this breakdown of yours will come with consequences._

“Holy shit! Can you just shut up, and leave me alone!” Tom shouts.

But the voice doesn’t.

* * *

There’s a knock on the door upstairs.

He doesn’t move. He lies on the bed. He’s emptied the liquor cabinet he has down here, smoked all the cigarettes. He’s got no idea how much time has passed. He’s been swaying in and out of hallucinations, talking to the voice in his head, sleeping fitfully. The voice is quiet now. Has been for a while, since he calmed down and sobered up. It’s worse. Like a friend leaving, despite the torment it had inflicted upon him. He hugs the netted glass floats he bought for John tighter to his chest. He feels empty.

It knocks again. “Dad! Open up!” Noah calls.

He doesn’t answer. He’d tried to shoot himself. Or tried trying, because he couldn’t remember the code to his safe no matter how hard he tried. The voice had taunted him, saying that he’d never be able to remember the code while it held the reins of his memory. He’d given up. He’s sober now. Glad he failed. It would have been horrible if Grace or Noah had to find him with his head blown off.

“Dad, if you don’t open up, I’m breaking in.”

Tom closes his eyes.

It’s quiet for a while, then he can hear a scraping noise and some curses. The locks click open. It’s quiet for a beat, then footsteps down the stairs. He hears somebody―Noah―come to a stop in front of him. He doesn’t open his eyes.

“Come on, dad. You’ve got to eat.”

He opens his eyes to look up at Noah. He’s holding a food tray, looking down at him with a determined expression. “I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t care. It’s been days. If you don’t eat, I’ll force feed you. And don’t think I won’t.”

“Days?”

“Yes. So sit up, and start eating.”

Tom complies, moving sluggishly and carefully. He’s a bit dizzy. His body hurts from lying still in the same position. When he’s sitting up, Noah puts the tray with its fold out legs, over his thighs. “You shouldn’t see me like this. I’m a wreck, Noah. Useless. You should have called the cops. I was dangerous. I could have really hurt your mom,” he says, staring down on the meal. Meat patties, broccoli, mashed potatoes, and sauce. There’s a bottle of water, a cup of coffee, and a Mountain Dew on the tray too.

Noah sighs, looking so very tired, dark circles under his eyes. “Yes, but you didn’t. Look, dad. After mom calmed down we had a talk, and she understands your reaction somewhat. We’re all dealing with our own grief which made the situation so much more explosive.” 

“I’m sorry,” Tom says, takes the utensils and cuts a piece of the meat patty. He puts it in his mouth. His mind may not want to eat, but his body’s famished, demanding food.

“I know you are, dad.” Noah sits down beside him and rubs a hand comfortingly over his back. “I’ve been worried about you.”

“I’m a mess, Noah. I should probably be committed to a psychiatric ward. I’ve heard voices. Hallucinated.”

“I got that. I’ve sat outside your door, listening. You’ve been talking to yourself, and cried more than the rest of us put together. I swear, if I ever hear you say ‘I’m sorry, dad, I should have been a better son’, ever again, I’m going to punch you.”

“I said that?”

“Chanted it, more like it. Two days ago.”

“I used to be a good son. I really tried. It’s hard to measure up, when the bar is always set slightly above what you can achieve,” he says between bites. It tastes really good. He feels sluggish and drained.

“I don’t care if you were a horrible son or friggin’ Jesus. I stand by what I told you before. You don’t have to forgive them. Jessi isn’t... She isn’t so forgiving… Not after what you did to Nana.”

A low growling sound escapes Tom before he can temper it down.

“I figured you’d say that. Dad, the funeral is in three days. I forbid you to come. I personally think you shouldn’t forgive, but that’s not the reason I don’t want you to go. I’ve been talking to Justin a lot. He started calling your phone the moment Jessi told him about Gramps. So, I spoke to him. It took a while to coax it out of him, but he told me about his own conflicting feelings for his parents. I believe, based on everything, that there’s a great risk, if you go to the funeral, that it’ll trigger another strong reaction from you. There’s going to be a lot of people on that funeral. People who know a different side of Gramps. People he has helped, with his charity work or as a friend. People who he’s been truly good to. They shouldn't have to be shamed for their mourning.”

Tom listens while he eats. Now he puts down his utensils, uncorks the water, takes a couple of deep swallows, then looks at Noah. “I’m sorry.”

“I know you are.”

“How are you doing, son?”

Noah scrutinizes him for a beat, then sags his shoulders, looking so tired and sad Tom would have teared up if he wasn’t so drained. “Honestly? Not good. It’s been hell. Nana’s completely undone with grief. I don’t know if there’s such a thing as soulmates, but if there is, she’s just lost hers. Jessi’s home from college, staying with Nana. Jessi’s very sad too. Mom and me, we have the same problem. We both love Nana and Gramps, but have chosen to not have a close relationship with them due to you and Justin. That makes us feel guilty. Both for grieving and for _not_ switching our stance on the matter. I miss Gramps. I’ve missed him and Nana ever since I took a stand for Justin. This doesn’t change anything. If Nana wants me as an active part in her life, she needs to reconcile with you, or at least _try_ to, and she needs to give Justin a chance. She won’t. She’s genuinely unable to see how she’s done anything wrong. On top of all this, I’ve been stuck with all the paperwork involved, since everyone else are, um, incapacitated. So I’ve been talking to the funeral director, the lawyer, informing people of Gramps passing, and everything else needed doing. I’ve had trouble sleeping, so instead I’ve been leaning against your door, listening to you cry…”

“Shit. Son, I’m―“

Noah makes a gesture to cut him off. “Sorry. I know, dad. It’s been a bit overwhelming. But when push comes to shove, I’ve made my choice. I love you and my brother more than Nana and Gramps, harsh as it may be. And I can grieve when everything is done and over with. I’ve had good help though. David and Neda’s been here 24/7, helping and supporting us. And the people around me… Mrs.Wilson, Mr.Vaughn, the other converts, they’ve been a great support. I mentioned my grandfather’s passing in a mail to Karim, the Imam, if you remember him. He immediately offered his help and I don’t even know him. John helped me with all the financial stuff―“

“John? My John? I mean, John Powell?”

Noah chuckles and gives him a tired, but amused look. “Yeah, dad. We’ve kept in touch via email since he went off grid.”

“How is he? How’s his divorce going?” Tom can’t help his desperate need for news about John. His heart is racing in a mix of excitement and trepidation.

Noah makes a time out gesture, brows raised in surprise. “Whoa. Time out. _Divorce_? He’s divorcing Cathy?”

“Shit. You didn’t know. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No I didn’t. He’s been keeping up to date with how my, um, mission or whatever, is going. Helped me out with stuff. But if he’s divorcing Cathy so many things make sense.”

“Like what?” Tom continues eating. He really is hungry.

“Like their house being put up for sale. Or like, the other day I ran into Gemma, right? And she’s really pissed off at her dad. Had a bunch of really nasty things to say about him, but she didn’t explain _why_. I can imagine Cathy not wanting it to get out. When that information hits the congregation…. Just, wow. She’ll be in for a shitstorm. The reason she’s given for him not being around is that his company needed him out of state.”

“Cathy’s got a lover, so don’t feel too bad for her. Why’s Gemma home from college?”

“She didn’t say. But with this piece of information I can imagine she’s home to help her mom. You and John haven’t spoken for ages. How come you know this?”

“John told me about it, and Justin filled me in on the progress.”

“Justin knows?” Noah asks, surprised.

“He couldn’t have told me otherwise, Champ,” Tom says, feeling his lips stretch into a smile for the first time since he found his mom on his doorstep.

Noah rolls his eyes and gives him a dry look.

“Noah… do you think I should emit myself to a psychiatric ward?” Tom asks, changing the topic, lest he starts pounding Noah with questions or beg to get to see the emails from John.

“No. Please don’t. Um. It’s probably stupid and selfish, but I need you at home, dad. I need you, okay? I’d rather have you locked down here with full neurosis or whatever it's called, than locked away and medicated to a zombie at some facility somewhere. I feel better having you close.”

Tom takes a good long look at Noah’s earnest, pleading eyes. That strange hallucination comes to mind, where he’d been someone else, and Noah was a runaway, in a universe where he’d supposedly fucked up so bad that… nevermind. It would never happen in this world. “Then I won’t. I’ll stick around as long as you need me, son.”

Noah sighs in relief. “Thanks, dad.”

Tom finds it a mystery how Noah would still want him around after how he’d acted. But he feels vastly comforted. _He_ needs Noah, far more than he can imagine Noah needing him.

* * *

Coming out of the den is awkward. It’s late in the evening when he braves the world again. (Or the house, but close enough.) He goes to the kitchen for something to eat, and finds Grace sitting by the table. She’s leaning her cheek in the palm of her hand, has a glass of white wine in front of her, and is playing with one of his lighters, lighting it over and over to look at the flame. He stops in the doorway, leaning his temple against the frame. “I’m sorry, Grace.”

She looks up, face as sad and empty as he feels. “You scared the hell out of me, Tom.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was so drunk, upset and angry. It’s no excuse. I truly am sorry.”

“I wasn’t thinking clearly either, Tom. I was distraught about Charles’ passing. Then Marion told me what you’d said to her, what you’d done. It was so cruel. I could hardly believe it. You’re never downright cruel. It’s pissed me off, how they’ve treated you, but I thought you crossed a line.”

Tom keeps quiet. He’s sorry about threatening Grace, but not about what he said to his mom. Mostly not.

Grace goes on when he doesn’t speak. “I guess I wasn’t expecting you to be sad. But we all heard you cry. It hit you pretty hard, didn’t it?”

Tom swallows. “Yes. But I’m not sure I’m sad for the right reasons. I don’t know how I feel about it. I think I’m more sad, that dad never cared enough to want my forgiveness. That he never acknowledged that he’s hurt me. And now he’s gone.”

Grace purses her lips thoughtfully, then nods once. “Are you going to the funeral?”

Tom’s a bit surprised at the question. Noah had ordered him not to. But then again, maybe Noah hadn’t told Grace that. And he doesn’t have to obey. “No.”

“You might want to consider coming. Maybe you’ll get some closure.”

“I…” He scrubs a hand over his face. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. Chances are, I’ll be angry. They can’t stop the son from speaking at a funeral. I’m fairly certain I’d end up saying exactly what I feel, and that’d ruin it for everybody. It would be even crueler to mom. Unless she can acknowledge what she did to me was wrong, I don’t want her in my life. Even if she would, I’m not sure I’d want her back.”

“Jessi might get mad at you for not coming. She’s really torn up about losing her grandpa. It’s just a couple of hours. Couldn’t you…” She trails off when he shakes his head sadly.

“I don’t think I could. I’m not… I’m not exactly stable right now.”

She’s quiet for a while looking at him, then goes back to lighting the lighter, looking at the flame. “Can you forgive me?”

“For what?” Tom asks.

“For mourning Charles. He was always good to me. And they were both a big support during hockey season when you were away.”

“Shit. Grace, that shouldn’t even be a question. I’m sorry, honey. I’m sorry that my complicated relationship with my parents makes it harder for you to grieve. But don’t feel guilty. I put no blame on you for liking them. I know they’ve been good to you and our children. If they hadn’t been, I wouldn’t have let them near you. Shit. Please, Grace, don’t feel guilty. Just allow me to forsake them. They’ve drained so much energy and happiness from my life, and I’m done wasting time on people who only bring negativity. Please, just…”

Grace lip wobbles. She rises from her chair and walks over to him, holds out her arms, eyes filling up with tears. He opens his arms to let her into an embrace, rests his chin on her head and rocks her gently. “C-could you sleep with me tonight? Just hold me? Nothing else,” she asks weakly.

“Of course,” he says, feeling a lot calmer.

That night he sleeps soundly, Grace spooned against his chest. They’re both wearing pajamas pants and T-shirts. There’s nothing more than that to it. It feels good, comforting. He wonders how Noah copes, sleeping alone. When he goes to check on Noah in the morning, he finds that his son isn’t sleeping alone. Neda’s in his bed on top of the covers, fully clothed and fully awake, just lying beside him. David’s sleeping on a camp cot beside the bed. Tom quickly closes the door not to disturb, happy that Noah’s got what he probably needs.

* * *

“ _You can at least come along to pay your respect!_ ”

“ _I didn’t respect him in life, and I don’t respect him now. You think dying automatically absolves every sin? I’d probably just end up spitting on his casket._ ”

“ _Oh my God, dad! It’s like I don’t even know you anymore!_ ”

His fight with Jessi before they went to the wake still rings in his head. Grace had been right, Jessi was not impressed by his choice not to come along. She truly was crushed by losing her Gramps. She loved her grandparents deeply. There’s no reason why she shouldn’t, and he doesn’t blame her for it. But it hurt a bit that she couldn’t accept that he wanted nothing to do with them. Of course, he’d made her cry. He feels guilty about it. And a little bit angry about her inability to accept that he doesn’t want to forgive his mom, even though she’s mourning. He can’t. He’s too wrung out to put others before him. He’s doing them all a favour by not coming along, but Jessi can’t see that.

The cab reaches its destination and stops. He pays the driver, grabs his bag, and steps out of the car after the almost three hour long journey. He’s in Bellingham, by the coast. He’s booked himself in on the Chrysalis Inn & Spa for the night. He’s been there with Grace once. But that’s not why he’s here. There’s a long wooden walkway over the water, called the S Bay trail. That’s where he’s heading. The scent of the ocean in heavy in the air, the sun is shining, birds chirping, and everything has started to turn green, last year’s drought forgotten. He gets onto the walkway and walks to the place where there’s a pier. He walks along it until he reaches the end. There are some boats in the water, but not many people about. He sits down, feet dangling off the pier, opens his bag and takes out a bottle of champagne and two glasses. Back home, the wake is probably well underway.

He uncorks the champagne and pours into the two glasses, putting the cork and its metal muzzle in a plastic bag he brought for trash. Then he takes one glass and looks out over the ocean. “I know how much you love the ocean, John, so here we are,” he says. “I feel a bit silly, talking out loud, by myself… I really wanted to share this moment with you. I know you want nothing to do with me, but let me just pretend for a moment.”

A seagull lands nearby, curious if Tom has any food. He looks at it while it walks closer, scrutinizes him, then decides he’s uninteresting and takes to the air again.

“So. My dad’s dead…. I had the freak out of the century when mom came and told me dad died. I’m telling you John, the belfry on me is full of bats. Almost hit Grace. Thankfully Noah was there to stop me. Don’t know if I could have lived with myself if I’d hurt her…. I think I hate my parents. I don’t know what to do with that. Dad goes belly up and I just… I lost it.”

He’s quiet for a while, watching the waves.

“So. Today it’s April 22nd, and they put my dad in the ground. Cheers.” He clinks his glass together with the full glass standing beside him, holds his own glass up towards the ocean in a salute, then downs the champagne. He refills his glass. “I miss you, John. I heard you’re still in contact with my son. It makes me glad to hear. I’m happy you don’t judge the son for the sins of the father… Have you noticed how he’s aged? He’s so mature now, burdened by so much responsibility I wish he didn’t have to carry. It makes me feel weak and useless, that I can't carry his load for him... He says he needs me. I don’t get why. He’s got so many people around him now. He doesn’t really need me. I do my best to be there for him, but he’s a grown man now. He’s the man in the house, not me. I’m wasting away, feeling less alive, more zombified by the day.”

He takes a sip from his champagne. Thinks of what he wants to say.

“Did you hear? Justin’s fallen in love. I’m happy for him. I don’t know how I’d make it through Christmas without his affection, but I’m still relieved. I’m… I’m still…” he sighs, looks down on the glass beside him on the pier. “I can’t get over you. I’m trying, but it just won’t work. I keep missing you, thinking of you. We weren’t even a thing, and still it feels like you ripped a huge hole in me when you left. I can’t seem to find anything big enough to fill it with.” He snorts with self deprecating amusement. “I even went to an antique store without you. Bought you a gift... Just look at me, sitting here. Our friendship’s been over for seven months, and I can’t let go. I haven’t seen you for five months, and the pain’s still acute. It’s not like me. It adds you to the big love’s I’ve had in my life. Those I can’t get over. Stefan, Sam, and now you. I don’t know, maybe it’s because you belonged in this life that makes it so hard to accept that you’re gone. I knew from the start that Sam was never meant for me. Stefan… well. I chose my kids over him. I accepted it. But you? You’ve been the brightest point of my life since my retirement.”

He drains his glass and refills it.

“Why did you ask me to hold on, John? What am I waiting for?”

He sits quietly for a long time, watching the waves, the boats, the gulls.

“Dad’s dead. I think it’s time I accept that mom won’t make amends, or apologise. It’s time I let them go. It’s not so easy. They probably did their best. I’ve never been lacking for materialistic things. If I wanted to try something, as long as it was within bounds of what they considered appropriate, they’d let me. They’d pay for it. They drove me to practise. I have good memories of them. It wasn’t all bad. But does it have to be? I’ve had worms of anxiety crawling in my belly for as long as I can remember. I’ve been ashamed of myself, and felt guilty for all my life. I don’t think I should’ve had to. I’ve carried that shit long before I realised I was gay. Realising I liked boys was just the last nail in the coffin. Do you think I’m doing the wrong thing, not forgiving?”

He’s quiet for a beat, scraping a spot on his jeans. “Good news is, I’ve found my faith again. I’ve started finding comfort in praying. Feeling more and more welcome, like God might actually want something to do with me, despite me being… despite the kind of love I hold for you.”

It’s getting chilly. He drains his glass one last time.

“I’m glad we had this talk,” he says, then takes John’s glass, pours its content into the ocean, cleans up, and walks away…

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Teaser for the next chapter...](https://67.media.tumblr.com/6d31e781dde5f27b84f29eed5a5ce231/tumblr_obta6g0pcw1uonx96o1_540.gif)


	45. Turning The Page

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom's father passing away had mental consequences for Tom. He's had enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Notes:**
> 
>  
> 
> Oops, I did it again. 
> 
> This and the next chapter was supposed to be one long chapter, but I decided to divide it into two, so that a certain scene gets the full spotlight it deserves.
> 
> I didn't lie though, a long awaited arrival happens here.

## Spring 2015

* * *

**April 22 - May 23, 2015**

Jessi goes back to college without saying goodbye to Tom. It hurts. Honestly, it _really_ hurts. He understands her stance, but it hurts that she can’t put herself in his place. He wishes the voice in his head would come back and taunt him about it, saying something like ‘I told you there’d be consequences to losing your shit, Tom.’ The voice stays gone. Memories remain normal memories. That’s a kicker. He’s having withdrawals. Not from booze or painkillers, but from the hallucinations he’s had. The vivid jumps in time and space. Tom thinks it’s the first time he’s truly grasped addiction. He gets moments when he’s trembling, pulse racing, and he really, _really_ needs another one of those experiences. Capital letter **Need**. A sucking feeling under his lower ribcage. Another piece missing that he feels like he can’t live without. Not in the same way he feels about John, Sam, Stefan. He can live without them, he just doesn’t want to. No this is different. It’s like discovering you don’t have a heartbeat and wondering how you’re still up and about. The feeling’s so strong, that he goes into fully fledged panic. He has to physically run away from the feeling. Actual running, like he’s hunted. He’s wildly out of shape, nevertheless he runs until he crashes from exhaustion. Even without his bad leg, runs like these are a bad idea, putting strain on his body that it isn’t prepared to cope with. The first times it happens, he’s fine. The second time his leg gives way when he’s reached the outskirts of Pine Glen, sending him flying to the ground. He lands on a patch of lush grass.

Grass or no grass, he hurts himself pretty bad, landing. Sheer over taxation combined with pain, has him throwing up a couple of times. He rolls over, away from the soiled grass. Then he just lays there, breathing hard, pain screaming in his leg, exhaustion making his head spin, and lactic acid pumping through his bloodstream.

He wakes up from somebody shaking him. He opens his eyes to spot Neda on his knees beside him, looking irked and stern. “You’re completely set on being difficult, aren’t you?” he complains. “I do not understand this reaction. It’s most peculiar. Humans are supposed to shy away from the experience, not _crave_ it.”

Tom’s way too aweary to understand what he’s talking about. He closes his eyes again, just wanting to rest. His leg is screaming with pain and passing out again seems like a pretty good option right now. On top of that, he can’t move it. He can wiggle his toes, but the knee won’t bend.

Neda grabs him by the back of his head and scoops him up in a sitting position, pressing a bottle against his lips. It tastes foul, but he drinks it anyway.

“This should block the effect long enough for the craving to die down by itself. Come on, time to go home,” Neda says.

“Can’t. Leg won’t work.”

Neda makes a vexed sound and touches his forehea― 

He’s walking home, limping slightly, muscles sore. He can’t go for runs like this. He doesn’t know what the hell he was thinking? He’d felt a pang of pain in his leg and almost fallen. He’d turned around, jogging instead. It’s hard to accept that he can’t move like he used to. It had felt good though, aside from the warning from his leg. He’s got the post-exercise endorphins coursing in his body. Maybe he should start working out again. Do what he _can_ do, without overtaxing his leg. 

_Just think of John. He can’t do too many throwing motions without messing up his arm, but he could build muscles anyway, working out at the gym. I should do that too. Find alternatives. They may not be as satisfying as skating, but let's face it. I’m better off when I exhaust myself physically._

He is. When John was around, he too had been going to the gym. Vanity will do that. You want to look good for your crush (and for Justin too). He’d meant what he said to Grace. He’s tired of being pushed around. It’s time he starts taking care of his own needs. His appetite had started returning slightly after the funeral, which was a good thing. He hates sleeping alone, yet had chosen to go back in the den after the funeral too. He’d like to fool himself and say it was by unspoken agreement, but truth to be told, Grace would probably have wanted him to keep sleeping in her bed.

 _Her_ bed.

It was no longer their bed. He no longer belonged there. More importantly, he didn’t want to belong there. Friendship or not, every time he slept with her it felt like a lie. He’s sick and tired of lying. Maybe the voice was right. Maybe lying to others and to himself for too long would have turned him into the bitter, stern, and self-disgusted man who had driven Noah to run away from home. He still had the memories of the alternative self that had stayed in Pine Glen. They were like faded photographs compared to his real memories, but he could still remember how ‘good’ he’d been. His only experience with a man in that timeline had been through the coach raping him. He’d never strayed from ‘the right path’ by choice. He can’t imagine ever turning into a man that could turn proud and tempered Grace into a timid and fearful woman, yet there it was.

Still, it doesn’t mean he can just up and leave. He’s scared to death of what will happen if they ever find out he’s a homosexual. He can’t afford to lose his support net, his family, right now. 

What he can do, is start being completely true to _himself_.

His dad’s dead.

It feels like a fetter around his ankle has suddenly come loose. 

His breakdown, the hallucinations, the voice… the voice had claimed she was comforting him. At the time it hadn’t felt like it. It had felt like torture. She’d taken so many ugly things in his life and shoved it in his face in a ‘ _LOOK AT IT!_ ’-fashion. It had felt like she was a beast, fangs and muzzle drenched in blood, outright ecstatic at the carnage. In hindsight, there were probably more to it. She’d re-broken bones that had healed incorrectly. Like a mental episode of ‘Hoarders’, where she’d pointed out the vast amount of trash he’d amassed and piece by piece held it up, asking ‘Do you really need this?’

How can he be of any help carrying Noah’s burden, if he’s toting around such a heavy burden himself?

Step one was letting go of his parents. Unlike Justin, he didn’t have anyone who could step in as surrogates. But he doesn’t need that. He’ll turn 39 in a couple of months. He’s a grown man, and he doesn’t need _parents_. 

He can’t do it alone. Sift through his fucked up inner self. He needs help. Noah is inadvertently helping him. He can’t actually _ask_ Noah for help, but he’s getting it anyway.

The trip to the pier had been a new start and a goodbye at the same time. He’d decided he really needed to do something, or he wouldn’t survive. Step one was saying farewell to his parents. A form of closure. He’ll never get real closure. He’s too angry to forgive. He’s spent all his life trying to deny and forget things. Well. Enough of that. He remembers what John once said. It was before he knew Tom is gay, but still. ‘ _I think you're one of the most good hearted, generous, kind, and respectful men I've ever have had the honour to get to know. I also think you measure yourself against impossible standards, give up too much of yourself to benefit and serve others. It’s not good, Tommy. We're only human. We’re allowed to want things for ourselves. We don’t get sent to hell for making mistakes, and having feelings of our own._ ’

In short. He needs to learn how to measure himself against the same standards he does others, forgive himself for making mistakes, and allow himself the right to acknowledge his feelings. His mantra has been ‘I have no right’ for the greater part of his life. Changing his way of thinking won’t happen overnight. He _can’t_ do it by himself. He’s so scared of failing. So the day before the funeral he’d made his decision. John had told him to hold on, and at the same time he can’t let go of John, even if John’s gone. So he’ll do this thing _with_ John. Just like he’d held onto Sam the first months of his retirement, by writing letters to him that he burned. He won’t write letters this time. Just let John’s ghost linger as a friend.

And who knows? Maybe in a year or two, or ten, he’ll meet somebody that makes him let go of John. A new lover, or a new friend, doesn’t matter. Until then, he’ll be holding onto John’s memory, trying to sort out the complete mess that he has inside of him.

When the need for closeness and intimacy gets too much he’ll go to some decent bar and flirt, or maybe take a trip down to Missouri. Even if Jimmy isn’t up for it, he’ll be able to relax and feel welcome there. He’ll figure this out.

* * *

It’s _not_ straightforward. One would think it’s just putting one's mind to it and it’ll come automatically. It doesn’t. He makes a schedule for himself. Noah’s needs are at the core of it. Wednesday evening and Sunday mornings in the old theatre. Saturday at the range. He writes in what chores needs to be done on what days, distributes them in a way he think he’ll manage. Every failure is devastating, even if it’s just about leaving laundry for another day. He writes in what days he’ll go to the range and practise. He writes in what days he’ll visit the gym. Even schedules what days to go shopping. What times he’ll eat and go to bed. It looks daunting, but all in all, it feels like what he needs right now. He sticks to his schedule minutely, only changing it if Noah needs something.

Every week he puts a copy of the schedule on the fridge, then checks it the first thing in the morning. Although he’s allowed for Noah to break it, Noah―possibly because he’s used to following schedules―discovers it, then pencils in things for the whole week on it. Noah rarely asks anything that breaks what he’s penciled in. He tells Tom to inform him if he needs to change anything. A day after Tom puts up his schedule, he finds that Noah’s done the same. Not a school schedule, that’s up on the fridge already, but an after-hours schedule for his week.

Noah and he are fairly codependent at the moment, he supposes. Noah’s coping by gun and car. That is to say, every free moment he has that isn’t devoted to his mission, he either wants to go to the range and shoot, or coddle Nelly. Noah is by no means a mechanic. He _loves_ his car, but it’s turning out to be a love-hate relationship. Tom likes to sit in the garage keeping Noah company while he tries to install this or that on/in Nelly. He decides to sponsor Noah’s vicious love affair with the car. He’ll pay for whatever Noah wants for her. He doesn’t think of it as spoiling Noah. Considering the hard work Noah puts in as a… missionary/therapist/mediator/guidance counselor… he deserves the means he needs to defuse. Here’s the catch…

“God dammit! Will you stupid piece of fucking metal junk cooperate just _once_ , for a change?!” Noah curses and kicks Nelly’s front tire angrily.

Tom hides his snigger behind his mouth. He’s long since given up on stopping Noah from cursing while he tinkers with the car. “That’s no way to treat a lady, Champ. She’ll call you fuckboy and tell you to talk to the hand,” he teases from his place on top of a pile of winter tires.

Noah huffs and throws him a side eyed glare. He doesn’t want help. Tom’s offered. If Tom leaves the garage Noah can get a bit needy though. ‘Where are you going?’, ‘You coming back?’ tumbles out of his mouth as soon as Tom leaves his chosen perch. Noah just wants him to be there. It suits Tom just fine. He gets the comfort of not being alone, time to think, and entertainment, all in one neat package. “She’s _my_ girl, she’ll do as I say,” Noah says determinedly and bends down, to try to get the lug nut to come loose, using the wrench. He’s changing to traction tires, that are legal year round (Tom recommended switching between summer and winter tires in this climate, but Noah insisted). One of the lug nuts however, refuses to come off.

“We could take her to the mechanic. It takes them less than five minutes to change all four tires,” Tom teases further.

Noah sucks in a breath, stands up and turns around, looking both betrayed and pissed off, a black smudge on his cheek. Tom laughs. “Dad. I can do this,” Noah says, gives him a final glare and bends down again. “I’m going to do this. No fucking mechanic’s going to touch my beauty,” he growls and resumes his activity.

Tom knows he can. Noah doesn’t really mind the ribbing, it just makes him more determined. “She really is a beauty, son. Martin would hardly recognise her today. You’ve done an amazing job.”

“AArgh! Hah!” The lug nut finally comes off after one last effort. Noah gets up and pats the car. “There you go, sweetheart. See how much better it is when you cooperate,” he says to her before he turns around smugly. “I told you I could do it.”

“Never doubted you for a moment, Champ,” Tom says with a lopsided smirk. “I’m serious, curses aside, you’ve done a truly fantastic job.”

“I know,” Noah says, oozing self-satisfaction. “I’m thinking of giving her a paint job. Can’t do _that_ myself. But she would look awesome with some cool airbrushed motive on the hood.”

“You had anything in mind?”

“”Um. No. Yeah. But I can’t make up my mind. I was thinking either an angel, or an orca jumping, or…”

“An orca? I didn’t know you liked orcas,” Tom says in surprise. He must be liking them a lot to want them on his car. But Tom had never noticed Noah having special interest in sea creatures of any kind before.

Noah shrugs and turns his head to look at Nelly’s hood. He rubs his chin thoughtfully, quietly for a while, lost in his own musings for a minute or two. Then he turns his head to Tom. “Oh, and on the topic of sexuality―“

Tom _loses it._ He laughs until tears comes to his eyes. Noah does this sometimes. Continue a conversation in his head, forgetting to voice it out loud. “Whooo,” Tom wheezes. “Your old man did _not_ make the same mind jump between orcas and sex as you did, son.”

Noah, having realised his blunder, is laughing silently too, head bent, cheeks burning, a hand hiding his face, and shoulders shaking with mirth.

“I can only guess there’s a mermaid somewhere in that skull of yours, or I’ll be a bit worried,” Tom says, grinning.

“Something like that,” Noah agrees, removing the hand from his face, grinning back at him. “So. Sexuality. You ever heard of asexuality?” he asks, then bends down to loosen the rest of the lug nuts.

“I have. Are you ace?” Tom asks curiously.

“Nope. Definitely not. I’m not as interested in sex as most of my peers seem to be, but I _am_ interested. No, I’m asking, because I spoke with a girl yesterday who is. I’d never realised it could be a problem. You don’t wanna do the do, you don’t, right? But apparently there’s a whole range of problems that come with not being sexually attracted to people, that I’ve never thought of. I thought it was interesting.” Loosening the other lug nuts goes with much more ease, so Noah works while he talks. This has also become a new habit of theirs. They’ve run out of new churches to visit (that Noah _wants_ to visit) in the somewhat close vicinity, so this had replaced their moment driving in the car. “Apparently, she’s a bit sex repulsed too. They don’t have to be, but she is. ….she likes kissing though.” Noah halts his movement and looks up, straight ahead at the car side, getting a smug expression on his face. “Or, she likes kissing _me_ ,” he adds.

“ _Noah_! You’re not taking advantage of those who come to you for advice, are you?” Tom asks, scandalized and a bit delighted too. Delighted, because it’s so, so _sinful_ , and he’s only human.

Noah chuckles darkly and shakes his head. He goes back to his work. “No, dad. Not like that. We’ve kissed before. At a party. Many girls tend to push for more when they get worked up, but I don’t want more. I want to have sex with the person I’m going to marry, and no one else. I’m not particularly bothered with if it happens before or after marriage, but it’s going to be with the One. Anyway, when she told me she was sex repulsed I got a bit freaked out, and asked her if she’d felt repulsed by making out with me. I mean, she’d just told me how pressured she felt from society as a whole, to be interested in sex and boys, when it squickens her. I worried that she’d only been kissing me because she felt she had to, right?”

“But she hadn’t,” Tom states, judging by Noah’s previous smugness.

“No. She likes kissing when there’s no pressure involved. And she likes cuddling. She likes me. So… um. Yeah. About taking advantage… I did. I saw a perfect opportunity and I took it. I told her what I told you, just now. That I don’t want to have sex with anyone except the person I’m going to marry. I also told her, that it wasn’t her, but asked her if she’d be interested in going steady with me, for a while at least. We’d both get some physical needs fulfilled, I’d never pressure her to go further than she wants, and she’d get people off her back. Because, dad, the things she told me about the pressure she’s under, to be _normal_... And I don’t see it that way, that’s her word. Like I said, you don’t wanna do the do, you don’t.” Noah pauses to take the tire off the car. When it comes loose he rolls it towards Tom, who hops down from his perch, picks it up, puts it away, and takes one of the new tires, rolling it towards Noah before climbing back on his perch. When Noah catches it he goes on. “I’ve never really felt pressured to do something I don’t want to. Not like that. My problem has more to do with my body wanting to do stuff when my mind says no. Temptation, right? Short skirts hiking up when a girl bends over, putting stuff on display, and maybe I _do_ feel like dipping my tongue in it. You know how it is.”

Tom sniggers. Girls or not, he certainly knows about temptation.

“But it’s my choice. Nobody’s making me do anything,” Noah goes on. “So I asked. I admit, I made it sound like I was doing her a favour. I am, right? But it wasn’t my motive. She’s nice. Very pretty. A good girl, suitable as a girlfriend. I like to talk to her. I don’t need more than that right now. It’s selfish, but I _was_ clear about what she can expect from me,” Noah says while he attaches the new tire.

“A _suitable_ girlfriend?” Tom’s mind catches uncomfortably on the word. It echoes of his decision to marry Grace. Parent approved, someone who you can show off without having people looking down their noses. A part of the ‘smile for the cameras’ act that Tom’s always hated and is trying so very hard to let go of.

“Yeah. You know. One you like and can talk to. That can accept me putting my mission before her.” Noah stops and rolls his eyes. He turns around enough to glower at Tom. “You didn’t think I meant, like, not a slut, or something like that, did you?”

“I did.”

Noah huffs indignantly and goes back to his work. “Honestly, dad. I don’t care if a girl prances around naked with pom poms, and has slept with every guy at school. As long as she’s smart, pretty, and nice. I can’t with mean and stupid people. And there’s _so. many. of. them_.” He accentuates the last sentence by banging his forehead lightly on the car side with every word.

Tom hides his snigger at Noah’s frustration behind his hand. This is why he’s totally okay with Noah’s abusive love of the car. Some people punches sandbags to vent their frustration. Noah rants and hits his car when just talking about it isn’t enough. He has absolutely zero road rage. He’s infinitely patient with people. But when he’s with Tom, he’ll let himself go, saying what he _really_ thinks. “Did she say yes?”

“Yeah, she did.”

“So you’ve got a girlfriend now, and you won’t tell me her name?”

Noah lets out a startled laugh. “Oh, man. I didn’t even think about that. I’m so used to keeping the names of people confidential, even to you.” Noah turns around, grinning sheepishly. “It’s Caroline Watson. You know who that is, right?”

“I do. You bringing her over?”

“I figured I’d take her home tomorrow. Formally introduce you to her, even if you’ve met before.”

“Sounds good. I’ll make something special for dinner.”

“You think it’s alright, don’t you? I mean, I know it’s kinda selfish, dating someone, more like a business transaction than anything else. But we both gain from it. You’ve gotta have dated someone without wanting anything more than sex or whatever out of the equation, right? You’ve _gotta_.” Noah meets his gaze inquisitively.

Tom squirms under his gaze. Noah’s frank challenge of his infidelity makes him nervous and uncomfortable. “I have.”

Noah gets back to his work. “You’ve been with anyone since your retirement?”

Tom’s pulse jump, mouth going dry. What the hell does he say to that? Yes or no? Lie or not?

Apparently, the hesitation is answer enough. “Oh. Wow. You have.” Noah says, stilling his hands. Tom slumps back in shame, feeling his cheeks heat up. “Of course you have. Why shouldn’t you have?” Noah mutters to himself.

“Son…”

“Stop.” Noah gets to his feet, pulling a rag out of his back pocket to wipe his hands. He sighs tiredly and goes to the workbench in the garage to get his beer, then walks over to the pile of new tires stapled beside the winter tires Tom’s sitting on. Noah takes a swig of the beer and sits down, facing Tom. “Look, dad. We’re gonna have to talk about this. I’ve already had this talk with mom, and it didn’t go well. But I haven’t viewed you and mom as a real couple for months. To me, you’re just my parents that so happens to be living together.”

Tom opens his mouth to answer, but finds no words, and closes it again.

Noah goes on. “I’m not expecting either of you to be faithful to each other because your marriage is, fuck, it’s a sham. You say you love mom, but I don’t see it. There’s no signs of affection whatsoever. You avoid being in the same room as her, you rarely touch her, and when you do, it’s habitual things like a peck on the cheek. When you _do_ show affection it’s during times even a stranger would do. Like after Gramps death. Whatever you two had, from your side, it’s dead. Can’t say the same for mom.”

Tom blinks stinging tears from his eyes. He feels weak for reacting like this. The bluntness hurts, but it’s more or less true. “Harsh words,” he says, voice a lot more even than he thought himself capable off.

“Yeah, but it’s what I see. I can’t say I’m happy about it, but wishing things were different doesn’t change anything, and I’ve gotta work with what’s in front of me.” Noah takes another sip of his beer and shakes his head. “If you were to separate for real, today, I’d go with you. I’m not ready to live on my own, and currently, living with you is better for me. I know you’ve got your own shit to deal with, and from what I’ve read about pro-athletes with permanent injuries, it might take years before you’re back on your feet again―“

“You’ve read up on that?”

“ _Duh_.” Noah gives him a don’t-be-stupid look. “Look, dad. I wish I could tell you, I’d help you through and all that. I can’t. Not with all the other, quite frankly, overwhelming crap, going on in my life. I need to think about myself or I won’t make it through. I know it’s harsh, but I need your support. Mom… mom’s having something of a crisis of faith, because of me. I know she supports me, but at the same time she’s freaking out because our old doctrine is so ingrained in her. It’s hard for her. I get that. She tries her best to answer my questions and discuss unbiasedly, but she can’t, not like you.”

“I’m biased too, son.”

Noah gives him a dry, faintly disgusted look that makes Tom want to laugh. “Not even close. Remember what you said, about there only being one God, and it’s possible that _any_ religion got something right?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, well, I think you’re onto something. But when I voiced that thought to mom, she looked at me like I’d killed baby Jesus and left the corpse on her desk. She was quick to hide the reaction, by all means, but I saw it. Look, dad. What I’m trying to say is. Right now, you’re the only one I can talk to, that _I_ feel I can voice unfinished theories and thoughts to. Most people around me, treat everything I say as gospel, or bullshit if they’re not converts. I can talk freely with Jessi and Justin too, but they’re not here. _You_ are. And I’d like you to be as honest as possible with me. I’m not saying you have to tell me everything. God knows, I don’t tell you everything either. But I don’t want you holding back because you think it’ll bother me. Like if you meet a girl you like or whatever. Hell, if you’ve got a girlfriend, tell me. I won’t tell mom. I won’t tell you if she meets someone either. You’ll have to resolve your shit yourself. Just…” Noah rubs a hand over his face, frowning. “Just, be you, around me, okay? Am I asking too much? If so, just tell me.”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. I’ll try, son. But I feel like I’m a burden to you, when I’m supposed to be a role model. I’m a mess inside. I don’t know how to solve even a quarter of the problems I have, and if I’d voice my thoughts to you I’d just be another one of those who come to you, whining.”

“You are a good role model. Both you and mom are.”

Tom gives him a sceptical look. “Son. You sent me to my room.”

Noah breaks out laughing. “I did that, yeah. That was awesome. Made me feel more powerful than when I touched Karim’s flower.”

Tom laughs in bemusement. “What?”

Noah grins. “Sorry, dad. I know it’s not funny. But… You looked really frightening when you advanced on mom. You shoulda seen you. You were red in the face and your eyes were black. You know, like you read about people when they’re really angry. I’d never seen it before on anyone. Not like that. I thought I’d have to fight you. And when I told you to go to your room, you just _did_.”

“Shit. I’m so ashamed of my behaviour. I never want to hurt Grace. I _do_ love her, son. I don’t know what happened that day. Something in me just snapped and broke. And when she came, mad at me…”

“I know. I was very upset about it. But after Justin told me how he feels about his parents, and how extremely worried he was about you…” Noah shrugs. “Just because you lose your shit once in awhile doesn’t make you a bad role model. Come on, dad. Face it. The first time Jessi and I heard you say fuck, was last year, when you and mom fought. Nobody’s perfect. I’m old enough to know that. The more stories I get told, the more I admire you and mom.”

Tom smiles. “Yes, your mom is a great mom.”

Noah chuckles. “That’s what she said about you. Awful husband, great dad. Admittedly, she did say, that you used to be a good husband. Which just circles us around to how this conversation got started.”

Tom shrugs noncommittally. “What was it you said about Karim’s flower?” he changes the subject.

“Oops. Yeah. Right. So…” Noah rubs his neck, looking uncomfortable. “So I lied to you when you asked if anything happened after you left the room, in the mosque. Sorry about that. I was a bit freaked out, which probably triggered the migraine.”

“What happened?”

“Um… so when we were about to leave… I don’t know if you remember, but there was a flowerpot with a dead flower in the room. I asked why it was there, and Karim told me it was a gift from his daughter, before she moved to Europe. He misses her terribly, but no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t keep the damned thing alive. But he couldn’t make himself throw away the last gift he got from her. I felt really sad for him, so before we left I kinda stroked the flower, and, um… it came back to life. Like, from where I touched it, life spread into the plant again. I freaked. Karim didn’t see it. I mean, he must have by now, but he hasn’t mentioned it. I think he keeps in touch with me because of it though…”

“What do you think it means?”

Noah laughs nervously. “I think it can mean one of two things. Either it was a sign to Karim to convert to Christianity. I don’t believe that, though. I believe it was a sign to me, that God can be found in every religion, like you said. It feels like that, when I’ve prayed about it. Neda agrees. He thinks I should keep up with my quest of listening to people no matter what faith they hold.”

“I agree. If God wanted to force Karim to convert, He could have used a million other ways. When I prayed in the mosque I felt nearness to God, just as I do in any church.”

Noah scrutinizes him for a beat, then chuckles. “This is why I need you, dad. I just told you I performed a miracle, and you just go,” Noah makes a parodic imitation, “‘ _Well, son, what do you think it means_?’ like I’d been given a tricky math equation for homework.” He grins and shakes his head. “It makes me feel normal. How come you never freak out?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because my imaginary friend as a child was an angel,” Tom answers with a lopsided smile. “But no. I think it’s more to do with the fact that it proves that God is real, and that he’s on your side. It makes me more certain in my faith. Just because we’re dealing with the divine doesn’t mean we should just stop using our heads and lay down flat in mindless worship. Just like the drowning man that prayed to God for rescue. He was so certain that God was going to save him, that he refused help from the boat that came by, and then he drowned. When he got to Heaven he asked God why He didn’t save him, and God answered that he did, by sending a boat. God helps us, but we need to think for ourselves too.”

“I guess…” Noah says with a smirk. “Alright, back to work. These tires won’t change themselves.” Noah takes another sip of beer, hops down from the tires, puts the bottle on the floor, and goes back to work.

Tom’s not sure how he feels about Noah’s view of him and Grace as separated already. Part relief, part sadness. His mind skirts over the thing about the flower, like it shies away from every other sign of divine intervention going on around them. The flowering gardens, the abundance of bees, the perfect weather with sun during the days and rain at night, the bad luck that seems to befall anyone who threatens Noah… His mind files all that under ‘I’ll deal with that later’. But the rest of what Noah said, about being honest, about moving in with him in a separation. The words ‘ _I’m gay_ ’ suddenly strains to tumble out, yet clings to the tongue. He can’t say it.

He can’t.

God, but he _wants_ to.

But the fear is too strong, too ingrained. Noah is his life buoy right now. Someday maybe. He can’t handle rejection right now. His will to live is new and frail. It needs to get stronger.

* * *

His relationship with Grace is quickly deteriorating again. He made a schedule for himself and he’s sticking to it rigorously, unless Noah needs him to make exceptions. He won’t bend for Grace though. Saying ‘no’, and all the conflicts that brings, makes him realise how seldom he’s said no before, even when they were more or less living separate lives. She asks him to go to the store for this or that and he tells her to write it on the shopping list, and he’ll get it on his shopping day. She counters by saying she needs it now and he tells her that she can go buy it herself. _BAM_ , argument starts. She says she needs it because she’s going to cook this or that, he says cook something else that doesn’t require said ingredient. She says it’s what she’d planned to make, he says ‘bad planning’. (Look at that angry bear, I better poke it!) Naturally, Grace’s temper flare, but unlike most arguments they’ve had over the years, he doesn’t shirk back in shame and guilt, but meets it with anger of his own. 

It’s trivial things, every single thing they end up arguing about. He’s fully aware that he could do the things she asks for, he has the time. But you know what? So does she. She’s doing something she’s chosen to do, that takes up a lot of her time. She has no boss, no one with the power to force her to do what she does. In their house, Noah’s the only one with outside commitment that he ‘can’t’ opt out of, and that is finishing his last year in high school. So Tom’s being a selfish dick towards Grace, not out of spite, but because right now he needs routine, and he can feel himself getting stressed or depressed anytime he breaks it.

Grace is not so understanding. ‘It’s just a schedule, not the freaking bible! Snap out of it!’ she snipes one day when he refuses to change something because she has friends coming over. But that’s what the schedule is about - snapping out of it. Now when he puts a cross over a date in his calendar, he has goals, things to strive for. It wouldn’t have worked a couple of months ago, but it does now. He’s in another place mentally, looking ahead, leaving the past behind.

He tries to cope using as few pills as possible, and not drinking excessively.

The first time he provokes Grace to the level of anger that she throws a plate at him, he doesn’t duck. He plucks it out of the air before it hits and glares at her with lips compressed to a thin line. Slowly, without taking his gaze off of her, he puts the plate down on the counter beside himself. He taps the plate lightly with a finger. “This is how you lose,” he says, voice calm and low, inside boiling with anger. Then he leaves the room. Grace shies out of the way with fearful eyes. He’s not sure what she saw in his face, but she wasn’t in any danger. Not even with the anger inside would he have hurt her while he’s sober. He won’t stand any harassment though.

He’s certain Grace is miserable and he’s doing nothing to help her. He’s not particularly happy about behaving this way, but he reminds himself that unless he helps himself first, he can’t help anyone else. He’s responsible for his life and she’s responsible for hers.

When he prays, he often goes for the serenity prayer―the same one they use in self-help groups like AA. _God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change the things I can, And wisdom to know the difference._ It’s easier for him than making his prayers personal. 

When he does send a personal prayer he washes his hands, his feet, and his face, first. Then he gets to his knees and bends down to put his head to the floor. Again, it’s easier to reach out to God from a position of total submission. He always opens the prayer with _Dear Lord, creator of all, I love a man, like a man should love a woman…_ No matter what he prays about (often it’s about Noah, Jessi, Justin, and Grace, for them to get the help and strength they need to find happiness, succeed at what they’re doing) he has an urgent need of reminding God that he’s gay. It’s one of the things he can’t change about himself, that he needs to accept. He’s done pretending he isn’t, and the hallucination (But was it, though?) he’d had about himself, in a world where he’d denied it to himself completely, he’d seen a spiteful, cruel man he didn’t want to be. The more he thought about it, the more he thinks that some of his goodness is anchored in accepting that he’s gay. Because when push comes to shove, even after he’d given up on trying to become straight, the shame and self-hate had never left him. He’s trying to love himself.

One morning after his shower he stands looking at himself in the bathroom mirror, trying to find something he likes about himself. Something he likes in the here and now, not in who he was when he still played hockey. If he thought about what he liked about himself back then, he’d just go back to mourning the loss of those days. “It’s not my fault. I don’t have to accept mistreatment, or forgive my parents. I want to live, and God still loves me,” he tells himself out loud. It’s so damned hard to believe. He’s added the line about wanting to live. He does. That _or_ die. He’s tired of just surviving his days. He added the line in a hope that telling himself out loud would make it truer. He’s tired of just walking around, slowly dying without never getting there.

He’s lost weight. Eating regularly, he’s starting to gain it again, along with some muscles while going to the gym. He still looks like he’s wasting away physically, but it’s turned towards the better. He tries smiling at his mirror image. He doesn’t like his smile, but he supposes he has nice enough eyes. He decides he can like that his body is inching towards healing from the major mistreatment he’s put it through. He can like his lack of jealousy towards ex-lovers, and that he wishes them well no matter how things has ended. He likes that he’s there for Noah, and that he’s been able to provide for both Justin and Jessi to go to college. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing. 

He decides that he can change his mantra. “It’s not my fault. I don’t have to accept mistreatment. There’s always another way. I want to live, and God still loves me.”

He’s done with his parents. He’s ready to let go. He’d said his goodbye to them, in the company of John, on the pier in Bellingham.

He really doesn’t like how he’s treating Grace. He wishes she’d just leave him completely alone. He’s taking a load of her shoulders now, with the schedule he manages to fit in all the house chores except making dinner, which he only does every other day. She’s working a full time job for free (by choice) and he’s completely okay with running the ground service as long as she doesn’t want him to switch around in his planning. He gets that she can’t see why he can’t vacuum on Tuesday instead of Wednesday when she’s having friends over for an instance, and him going ‘my way or the highway’ is harsh.

It boils down to that he doesn’t see them as a twosome anymore, like Noah said. He doesn’t want to try.

He drops this state of steeliness when she comes home one evening, and he can see that she’s shook up. He goes into comforting mode without even thinking about it. She needs it too. She’s witnessed a car accident. A biker colliding with a car. It’s another night when he sleeps holding her, but then she’s on her own again. She’s got friends. She’s not alone. She’s going to have to accept that she can never get back, what they once had..

One Saturday morning he wakes up **4:30** AM. His leg is aching painfully, preventing him from going back to sleep. He goes upstairs to get a painkiller, swallows it down with water, then heads back. He stops when he hear the lock click and the door open. He goes to the hallway to check who the hell is coming in at this time a night. Noah’s in the hallway with Neda. Noah’s got his back to Tom, taking his jacket off. Neda sees Tom, but doesn’t say anything.

“Where have you been?” Tom asks. He thought Noah was upstairs, sleeping.

Noah startles and spins around. He’s sweating profusely, cheeks red, and gives a little laugh when he spots Tom. “Holy shit, dad! You scared me.”

Tom frowns and walks up to the pair, eyes intent on Noah. “I thought you were asleep. Where have you been?”

Noah grins stupidly at him. “Been out dancing.”

“Without telling us? What if somethi―“ Tom stares into Noah’s gaze, pulse starting to race, stomach dropping. It feels like he’s falling, he’s suddenly cold with fear. Noah’s pupils are _huge_. “Noah, are you _high_?!”

Noah chortles and shakes his head. “Of course not,” he says and chortles again.

Like it’s funny. 

His son is high as a kite! Tom grabs Noah’s warm cheeks, staring in shock at the pupils, so big they’re swallowing up all but a tiny rim of blue. His mind rebels at what his senses are telling him. The pupils, the sweating, the elevated body temperature...

“No. This won’t end well,” Neda says and snaps his fin― 

One Saturday morning he wakes up **4:25** AM. His leg is aching painfully, preventing him from going back to sleep. He goes upstairs to get a painkiller, swallows it down with water, then heads back. He thinks he hears the lock while he’s walking down the stairs, and stops to listen. There’s someone in the hallway, so he turns around to check who the hell’s coming this time a night. He spots Neda and Noah walking towards the stairs to the upper storey. Neda spots him, huffs in annoyance and snaps his fi― 

 

One Saturday morning he wakes up **4:20** AM. His leg is aching painfully, preventing him from going back to sleep. He goes upstairs to get a painkiller, swallows it down with water, then heads back. He crawls under the covers again and lie staring at the glass floats hanging over his bed, thinking of John. He hears the flush of the upstairs toilet, and feels comforted that he’s not alone at home. He reaches for the cigarettes by his bedside, takes one out and lights it, waiting for the painkiller to take effect. He should go out and smoke now when the weather allows, but thinking of doing another trek up and down the stairs with his aching leg is out of the question. Instead he reaches out for the ashtray and puts it on his chest while he smokes. Some days he craved the cigarettes, other days he forgot he had them. They helped calm him down when he felt stressed out though. 

He thinks of what Noah told him, that if he moved, Noah would come with. He’s surprised about that. Since when do children move with their dad? Noah and Grace talked and socialized a lot too. It wasn’t like Noah only took Tom’s side. 

Noah had acquired a callous side Tom hadn’t seen before Noah stood up in church that day. His son spent his days being mild mannered, understanding, and kind - smiling for the cameras. A year ago, Noah would never have ‘acquired’ a girlfriend the way he had. A year ago, he wouldn’t have fixed his Gramps’ post-death paperwork for his Nana, while at the same time telling his dad not to forgive, he wouldn’t have the disgusted tone while talking about people as a whole, wouldn’t unleash fury on a car. He’d lost his innocence. It’s a tremendous task he’s doing, pressure beyond belief, to be on a quest from God, making it up as he go.

Tom’s finally starting to see how he’s being needed. Both as an outlet and a councillor. A lot of times when Noah’s asked for advice, he’d answered vaguely, because he felt too uncertain to answer any other way. But Noah doesn’t need anyone to tell him what to do. God has given him a task, and he needs a ballplank. He needs someone whom he can drop the mask in front of, and be sure he’s still loved and respected anyway. Tom’s managed to do that, even when he’s been in his deepest depression. It feels good. Both to be needed and to understand _why_ he’s needed. He adds it to his list of things he likes about himself.

He thinks Noah’s doing the right thing, putting his own needs first. He doesn’t see it as selfish, looking at the big picture. It’s so much harder to give himself the same acceptance. He’s trying. He’ll get there.

He can never be the husband Grace needs. He’ll be asking for a divorce sometime in the not too distant future. Not now. His confidence and energy is a house of cards. He’s not ready. He’d sign the papers without hesitation, if _Grace_ asked. But he’s not ready to stand alone just yet. Even with Noah.

He really respects the candor Noah had shown, telling him he he wouldn’t help Tom work through the mess he is inside. Somehow, it’s a great relief. He _wants_ help. He can’t do it alone. Noah’s already helping him just by being around, minding his own business. The ghost of John is helping. God is helping. Sorting through the memories that came through so clearly during his breakdown, helps. Bringing to mind what people have told him in the past, helps. Now he tries to weed out the parts that’ll make him feel better about himself, instead of denying them and shame himself. He’s not free from guilt. He’s hurt people and he’ll continue to do so. Grace, Cal, Justin… people wanting different things than him, that he has to say no to. What he’s trying to do now, is learning not to hurt himself.

He takes one last drag of the cigarette, squishes it in the ashtray, and puts the ashtray away.

He hopes Noah has enough coping outlets. Shooting, his car, his time with Tom, makeout sessions with Caroline… There’s no telling how things would go, if it all got too much for his son.

Tom turns around and closes his eyes. He falls asleep soon enough.

* * *

May the 17th Tom buys two cupcakes, a packet of birthday candles, and a small bottle of champagne with two plastic champagne flutes. He drives to the old baseball court. Nowadays it’s mostly unused, replaced by a newer, better one. He goes up on the bleachers and sits down on his favourite seat. Here’s where he used to sit, watching the school team on home games. Where he’d admire John show off his talent, back in the day. He puts the cupcakes and the champagne flutes beside him, opens the bottle and pours its content into the two plastic glasses. He puts the bottle away, opens the packet with birthday candles and takes a candle out, putting it in one of the cupcakes. He puts the packet away, digs out his lighter and lights the candle.

He takes one of the champagne flutes and holds it up for a toast. “Happy 39th birthday, John. One year closer to the big, scary 40th. You’re old now. How does it feel?” he smiles sadly, looking at the cupcake with the candle. “I’m sorry for the underwhelming celebration. If you were here, I’d try a little harder… One more month, and we’re the same age again… I still miss you.” He clinks his flute with the other, takes a sip, then puts down his glass to take the candle free cupcake. “I know it’s probably all kinds of creepy, me doing this. I hope you don’t mind. I’m not chasing after you. I accept that you don’t want me in your life. But holding on helps me let go of so much other crap inside of me… someday I might be able to let go of you too.” He feels a pang of longing sadness, saying that. He takes a bite of his cupcake. It’s a bit too sweet. The strawberry taste is a bit too artificial. “You know, I could have made you these? No I could have made better ones. I’m actually pretty good at making cupcakes. Mom taught me. Dad thought it was ridiculous, teaching me women’s tasks. But it’s part of the better memories I have with mom. Me and Grace used to bake together with the kids when they were little, so I had use of that knowledge.” 

He takes a couple of more bites of the cupcake, washes it down with champagne, looking out over the court. “Do you remember the dreams you had back then, when we were teenagers? I was aiming for ChHL with single minded stubbornness. I had nothing else… Now?” He sighs. “I have absolutely no idea what I want, or who I am without hockey. All I know, is that what I’ve got, it’s not what I want… I’ve even considered moving to Missouri. A small town called Rocky Creek. Can you imagine me, Carhartt jacket, flannel shirt, pickup truck. No? Me neither. But nevertheless, I liked the town.”

He puts out the candle before it reaches the cupcake. “Good news is, I feel like finding out. What I want, who I am, what I can become… I still have the damned anxiety crawling all over, still struggling with guilt and shame, still don’t feel comfortable in my own skin. But it’s a start. It’s a start, John. I’ll get there.”

He drinks the last of his champagne, takes John’s flute and walks down to first base, where he pours the champagne on the ground. He carries the flutes to the nearest trashcan and throws them away. The cupcakes are left on the bleachers for the birds to find.

* * *

May the 23rd. Exactly one month away until his birthday. Grace is at home today and they’ve been arguing more or less non-stop about everything and anything. He can’t stand her. Even when she’s well meaning or of the same opinion as him they end up sniping at each other. The fact that she’s at home makes it feel like she’s intruding on _his_ time to move freely in the house. After lunch the doorbell rings and he gives her a glare as he pushes his chair away from the table to go open the door, like it’s her fault somebody rings the doorbell. He practically stomps out of the kitchen. He opens the door, annoyance scratching the inside of his ribcage, and….

His mind blanks. He sucks in a breath, forgetting to let it out again.

John.

John’s standing outside.

More handsome than ever. 

_Jesus Christ!_

His hair is ruffled by the wind, he’s wearing a blue jeans shirt with an old T-shirt, he’s tanned and has the beginning of stubble. He’s lost weight, but not the same way Tom has. Oh no, he’s got a single guy’s body now. 

John smiles tentatively at him. “Hey.”

Tom swallows dryly. “Hi.”

 _I’m so not ready for this,_ he thinks nervously, wide eyes, wanting nothing more than to reach out to touch John just to see that he’s not a hallucination. (Although, with those he’ve had, touch would hardly been a guiding factor.)

They’re both silent for a beat, just looking at each other. Tom’s feeling so many feelings. Elation, fear, confusion, and―surprisingly―anger.

“You look good,” John says after awhile, smile getting wider.

Tom crosses his ankles in front of himself, puts one hand in his front pocket, thumb sticking out, rests his other forearm high up on the doorframe and leans his body in an elongated curve, bending his neck and raising his eyebrows skeptically. “We’ve got mirrors, John. I look like shit,” he says dryly enough to spark another drought.

John laughs―a sound that sets off butterflies in Tom’s belly―bends his neck and shakes his head, grinning, before looking back at him fondly(?). Tom finds himself with a little smirk dancing on his lips, self-satisfied about making John laugh at his _stow-your-crap_ joke. “It’s good to see you,” John says instead.

_WHY ARE YOU HERE???_

It’s such a pressing question. Asking outright is so confrontational that John might think Tom doesn’t want him here. The anger he feels surprises him, but John just left without goodbye, leaving him to wonder and worry. It’s akin to when the kids had gone over to a friend’s house when they were younger, and hadn’t told them where they were, then come home late. The relief translates to anger. “Mh. You on the other hand, look…” Tom gives John a slow, appreciative once-over. _Gorgeous, beautiful, handsome, fantastic_. “...single,” he finishes with a meaningful smirk. 

John chuckles, eyes twinkling. He holds up his right hand, palm towards himself, and wiggles his fingers. The back of his hand is as tanned as his face, but the ring finger is pale where his wedding ring used to be. “Exactly two months today.”

“Congratulations. Justin told me it was a bloo―“ Grace walks up behind Tom to check who’s at the door.

“John? _John_!” she interrupts him and steps outside to wrap John in a hug, smiling brightly. Once again, Tom’s hit with mixed feelings when John hugs her back, laughing, lifting her off the ground. One part of him thinks they’d make a lovely couple, and would fit so well together. The other part of him is not so generous, and wants John all to himself, even if it’s just for five minutes of chatting. 

“Good to see you, Grace. You look beautiful as always,” John says when he frees himself, holding onto Grace by her upper arms to look her over with a friendly smile.

“Suck up,” she grins. “What are you doing here? How have you been? Where do you live nowadays? I heard you and Cathy sold the house and moved state. Come in, come in,” she urges and backs up, out of his grasp, motioning for him to come inside.

John sucks in a breath. “Actually…. I’m here to steal your husband away for a day or two, if that’s alright? He and I need to talk.”

Tom’s heart flutters nervously. _A day or two?_

Grace throws Tom a side-eyed glower. “You can keep him,” she quips dryly. Tom sends her a dark glare right back.

John laughs. “You might regret saying that,” he tells Grace with a smile, once again making Tom’s belly flop, then looks at Tom. “What do you say?” he asks with raised eyebrows and motions backwards, towards where his car is parked. It’s a ‘new’ car, an older car than he drove before. Their gaze locks. John’s smiling, but Tom can see him swallowing nervously, getting something uncertain and vulnerable about him.

It was never really a question.

Whatever John wants, good or bad, if he says ‘come’, Tom will come.

Tom reaches to the side to grab his jacket. John relaxes as soon as Tom starts the motion.

“Alright. You boys have fun,” Grace tells them. “And don’t be a stranger, John. You’re always welcome in this house. You know that.”

“Sure,” John says while Tom puts his shoes on. John gives Grace another hug, then she closes the door behind them when Tom steps outside.

John leads the way to the car, repeatedly looking behind him like he needs to make sure Tom’s really following him. He opens the passenger seat door and holds it open for Tom, biting his lip expectantly. Tom meets his eyes as he’s about to enter the car. John smiles encouragingly.

Tom’s really not sure what to expect. So much had changed during their months apart. Not Tom’s feelings for him. God, no! They were still as rampant as ever. Being faced with him… there’s always the risk that when you just go around remembering someone, you end up glorifying the memory. But just like every time he’d met up with Sam, his feelings were intact, all there. No, the changes were inside of him. He’d begun to believe God could love him, despite him being gay. It may not seem like such a big thing, but he no longer felt like he was diseased. He has no idea why John’s here or what he wants, except for what he told Grace - to talk.

Last time they saw each other, John had been very standoffish. None of this smiling, making eye contact. He’d said he didn’t want to be with Tom out of public eye. 

Tom’s heart is hammering so hard in his chest. His palm are getting sweaty. He’s probably looking suspicious as hell, even if he tries not to. He sits down in the car and buckles his seatbelt while John closes the door and goes around to the driver’s side. John gets in, buckles up, looks at Tom. He takes a breath as if he’s about to say something, lets the air out again, closing his mouth. John nods to himself, looks forward, then starts the car…

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I **know** John's eyes are brown, and Cavill's are blue. Just pretend it's the sky reflecting or something. ;)
> 
> Also, I've officially cast who "plays" Neda.  
> The honour of playing her female self, goes to Lupita Nyong'o  
> 
> 
> Her vessel is played by Ryan Gosling. I know he looks a tad bit too old, but since Neda's mainly part of Noah's story, and it goes on for years after we leave them, I'm okay with that. I don't know if you remember, but Neda's adjusted her looks a couple of times to suit the opinions of those around her.  
> She started out as darkhaired:  
> 
> 
> And has adjusted, bit by bit, to be blonder.  
>   
> 
> 
> I feel pretty certain she'll be adjusting herself more over time. She's quite vain, to be honest.
> 
> You are of course free to create your own image of the characters. I just like them to be cast so I can make gifs.   
> Feel free to suggest actors/celebrities for Justin because I'm stumped.


	46. Phoenix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has planned in advance. Tom is not prepared.

If you look up ‘Awkward silence’ on Wikipedia, there’s just going to be a short video of John and him riding in John’s car.

Tom’s got a thousand questions he doesn’t know how to ask, mainly because John hasn’t made it clear why he’s here and what he wants to talk about. Tom’s afraid he’ll just say something stupid if he opens his mouth. Like ‘God, you’re beautiful,’ or just let a bombshell drop how terribly he has missed John. 

John on the other hand, is _nervous_. Tom’s used to John being a lot more commanding, less pussy footing. John’s face is locked in a tiny hint of a smile, but for the rest? Focused on the road, throwing quick side eyed glances that skirts away when he finds Tom looking, audible swallows that tells Tom that his mouth is dry. What does _John_ have to be nervous about? 

John’s nerves makes anxiety crawl all over Tom’s insides.

They manage ten solid minutes before Tom can’t take it any longer. He turns his body towards John, leaning his elbow against the window sill. “For one who claims to have come to talk, you’re awfully quiet. You’re nervous, John,” he says with a mocking smirk, lowering his eyelids.

John throws him a look and then smiles straight ahead. “I guess I am.”

“What you got to be nervous about?”

“We didn’t exactly leave off on the right foot,” John says.

Tom shrugs, outwardly unbothered. _He_ is nervous. He wishes his palms would stop sweating. He decides to change the topic. “Justin said your divorce was a bloody battle. How’d it go?”

John relaxes. “For me? Or for her? That witch wouldn’t sign the papers, even faced with proof that she already had a new boyfriend. Oh no. No she tried to undo me instead. Going at me from all angles. Attacking me at work, at home, trying to catch me cheating. From the moment I took Juss’ advice to hire a private detective, until the moment the divorce was finalised, I didn’t have sex, or even flirt.”

“Poor you,” Tom teases with a playful smirk. It’s not that he doesn’t sympathise with John, but considering he’d been cheating non-stop for years... Plus, it is a slight lie, as they’d spent a night together during the time period mentioned. Tom’s not going to point that out though.

John glances at him, sees him smiling, and snorts in amusement. “That’s not what it’s about,” he says, catching Tom’s drift. “Okay, in part it is. I’m a jealous lover. I’m not going to pretend I’m not. If I consider something to be mine, it’s _mine_. I realise the double standards in this. But that’s not what I meant. I was trying to follow your example and be a good guy. I didn’t make a big fuss about her lover, just let her know that I knew that she had one, and that I had proof. I requested a divorce, handing her the papers, and she refused to sign them.”

John turns his head to look at Tom for a beat, face serious. “They were fair, Tommy. Fifty-fifty split of everything, except Gemma’s college tuition and the means she needs to be able to finish college without taking a loan or a job. That part came from my share. No alimony, since she already has a new boyfriend and no kid to take care of. Just, split everything and walk away. _Fair._ ”

“It sound more than fair to me,” Tom agrees. 

“Exactly. When I thought about it, I thought ‘what would Tommy do?’, just to make sure I didn’t let the asshole in me take over.”

“Dear Lord,” Tom says, bending his neck, closing his eyes and massaging the base of his nose. “I’m not a good example of what you should do.”

“Maybe not. But your way of _thinking_ is. Thinking and doing are two different things.”

Tom removes the hand from his face. Nerves are melting away now that they’re talking. He’s still not relaxing fully. Won’t, unless they touch on the real reason why John came. “So what did she do?”

“Everything. She didn’t want me to get anything, _and_ she wanted alimony until she got remarried. Which it wouldn’t surprise me, if she’d never do, just to spite me.” John huffs. “It was ugly. Tom, it was real ugly. She fought dirty and it escalated when I got pissed off and responded in kind. The divorce papers got re-drawn over and over, and every time I gave her a new version I had changed the percentage of the cuts to my advantage. During the time this went on she accused me of having an affair with my secretary, she accused me of skimming accounts at work, producing fake ‘proof’, she produced photoshopped pictures of me cheating when she couldn’t get real proof. It was like sitting in a leaking boat, trying to stop water from gushing in with my hands, while more and more holes appeared.”

“Shit.”

“Mhm. You could say that,” John agrees. “I had an advantage over her though.”

“The pictures?”

John smiles and shakes his head. “No. I had one goal, at that was to be free. Lose my job? I can get another one. Cash can be earned. I have friends that would gladly let me crash on the couch for however long. As long as this thing ended with me a divorced man, I’d win. Nothing to lose.”

“But skimming accounts is a serious allegation. It could’ve led to jail time,” Tom points out.

“True. But the so called proof she produced could be easily disproven with the help of the controllers working for us. I work for a big corporation. While she somehow managed to plant evidence in _my_ office, she couldn’t get to all the backup servers and the filing rooms at HQ. I don’t think she really understood how big the company is. I’ve been very lucky. I’m well liked and well respected at work. When she attacked me there, she kicked a hornets’ nest. The company has pressed charges against her because of it all. I don’t care, I don’t want anything more to do with her. One would think she would have learned when she accused me of sleeping with my secretary.”

“I noted the hostility between them in church.”

John chuckles darkly. “Yes. This whole ordeal has really shown me who’re my real friends, and who aren’t. She accused me of beating her and of trying to kill her too. But by then she’d already tried the skimming thing, and her credibility wasn’t very good. The fact that she wouldn’t sign divorce papers didn’t help. The charges were dropped pretty quickly.”

“Shit. Jesus Christ, John.” Tom shakes his head. It’s hard to imagine people doing things like that to each other. He thinks that if Grace refused to sign a 50-50 agreement, he’d change it to 75-25 to her advantage. He’d rather let go of _everything_ to get to walk away. But then again, he can’t imagine Grace doing any of these things. Not even with all the fights they’d had.

“Mhm. I won. She got squat, except her clothes and jewelry,” John says, face dark. “I wouldn’t even let her have the furniture I hate. She wants to fuck with me? I’ll fuck her up right back. Naturally she had to give me one last kick before she moved into her boyfriend’s house. Destroying all of the stuff in the house that _I’d_ bought. The things I’d collected from antique stores. Then she took the car anyway. I don’t really care about the car, but I reported it as stolen to get her back. It _is_ stolen.”

“Gemma took Cathy’s party even though Cathy did all this?”

John side eyes him. “Not exactly. I’ll tell you about Gemma later. But Gemma doesn’t know all the stuff Cathy did. I didn’t tell her, and Cathy…? Well, Cathy is a great actress who believes her own lies. We’ve resented each other for a _long_ time, Tommy. Hated each other's’ guts, yet outwardly managed to play the happy couple. It wasn’t hard for Cathy to switch from playing loving wife to play defenseless victim.”

Tom shakes his head, horrified and baffled.

“On the bright side,” John says, switching his tone to a lighter one, “Today I’m a free man with lots of money on the bank.”

“Juss said you’d win.”

“He did, did he?” John smirks, looking a bit dark in the eyes again. “You and him still at it?” he asks, looking away from the road long enough to pin Tom with sharp regard.

Tom’s pulse elevates. Guilt. He thinks he shouldn’t feel it, but he does. He feels like he’s been caught red-handed with his hand in the cookie jar. “No. Justin’s got a boyfriend now. He fell in love with a guy named Perry who’s in one of his classes. They seem happy.”

“Any plans on rekindling the romance once they break up?”

Tom chuckles and shakes his head. “That’s kind of harsh of you, to assume they will.”

“You’re not answering the question.”

“I’m wondering how it is any of your damned business,” Tom snipes. _Oh_. John’s jaw muscles clenches and unclenches rhythmically while he stares straight ahead at the road. Tom wonders where his nasty tone came from. He hadn’t meant to snipe at John. He raises a hand to his mouth and bites a nail, talking through his teeth. “I’m not saying it isn’t, John,” he says, tone softer. “I’m just wondering why it is. You haven’t declared intent. Are you back to give me shit? In that case, you can stow it. I’m so done with being judged for my mistakes. I don’t need it. Justin and me… I’m not sure I would have made it through Christmas without pulling the trigger on myself, without him. I’m happy that he’s found somebody new, and no. I’m not planning to rekindle the romance. But he was _there_.”

John doesn’t answer. The silence that lingers is heavy. Part of Tom wants to tuck tail between legs and ask for forgiveness. Make it right. It’s a compulsion. The feeling of being unworthy. But Justin and he, the romance might have been ill advised and unfair, but it was _their_ choice. Justin had been in on it, knowing Tom was head over heels for John. If Juss chose to ignore that, well, it was up to him. Tom had treated him like a boyfriend when they were together, once John was out of the picture. The last sentence hangs in the air like an accusation. They’d been friends. They’d been best friends and it had taken _one kiss_ for John to abandon him. One glance at Tom kissing Cal for John to drop him like he’d burned himself. Suddenly his throat constricts and his eyes burn, because it wasn’t friggin _fair_.

“John.” Tom lowers his hand from his mouth and looks straight at John. “I’m gay.” It’s the same thing as when he prays. He needs to put it out there. A solid reminder that it’s part of who he is, that he can’t change. Sam’s words from many years ago, comes to mind. ‘ _...If you look around closely you’ll find homosexuality and bisexuality in almost any species. So don’t say it’s a disease, like it’s wrong how my heart skips a beat everytime I see you. Like it’s wrong how you make me feel warm, safe, and accepted like no one else can…_ ’ “If you came to be an asshole about it, you might as well stop the car and let me get out.”

“No. That’s not…” John hisses frustratedly between his teeth. “I apologise for bringing up Justin. You’re right. It’s none of my business. I want it to be.” That statement makes Tom frown in bemusement, but John goes on before he has time to challenge it. “I’ve been getting my life in order, Tom. I need to tie up loose threads. You, _us_ , is one of them. Like I said, we didn’t leave off on a good place. I need to talk to you, to straighten things up.” John snorts in amusement. “Bad choice of words.”

Tom chuckles. “So talk. I’m right here.”

John smiles. “I was hoping to have this talk when we get where we’re heading. I’m going to be very personal and completely honest with you, and I need to be in an environment where I can relax. The car isn’t ideal.”

“Why not? Noah does it all the time. Springs shit on me while I’m driving.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?” John latches onto the change of subject. Tom lets him. Now that he knows why John’s here, what’s waiting ahead (kind of), he can wait. 

“Like ‘Dad, Justin’s bisexual’, ‘dad, you don’t love mom’, ‘dad, how do you handle temptation?’, ‘dad, tell me if you get a new girlfriend, I won’t tell mom’.” The last one wasn’t in the car, but it’s all the same. “I’m telling you, riding in a car with my son, you never know when he’s going to start an impromptu game of ‘never have I ever’.”

John laughs, the sight of it still thrills Tom, despite the undercurrent of betrayed feeling that lingers. Feelings he didn’t even know he had until now. “Fuck, that’s got to be hard. Your family doesn’t know yet?”

“No. Just you, Juss, and I think Neda…” He’s not sure if Neda knows, but he thinks so. 

“Who’s Neda?”

“One of Noah’s new friends. Are we going much further? If so, can we stop at the next gas station? I forgot my cigarettes at home and I’d like to have a smoke.” 

“We are. But you can smoke in the car. Light one for me too, will you?” He reaches out and opens the glove compartment, takes out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and holds it out to Tom. The way he’s holding them, it’s impossible not to touch him while taking them. The brief touch jolts a spark up Tom’s arm and sets off a burst of butterflies. He _almost_ smiles stupidly, betrayed feelings forgotten.

_Control your face, Tommy,_ he chastises himself.

He takes out two cigarettes, puts them in his mouth, lights them, and hands one over to John, their fingers touching again in the passover.

It’s amazing, how even the briefest touch from the right person can make a soul sing.

John pulls out the car’s built in ashtray and Tom puts the cigarette pack back in the glove compartment, with the lighter inside the pack. He takes a drag on the cigarette and looks at John only to find him smiling to himself. There’s something softer about John than Tom remembers. Muscles in his face that used to be strained, that no longer are. Freedom will do that, he supposes. He pushes the button to open the car window a notch, to suck the smoke outside. “So where are you taking me?”

John smiles, wide and open. “I want to introduce you to my new girl.” He throws Tom a look, eyes warm and mischievous, takes a drag on his cig and looks back at the road. “She’s a beauty. You’ll love her.”

_Oh._

He’s not sure why he’s even disappointed. What did he expect? 

Besides, this is a hopeful turn. If John wanted to cut him out of his life, he’d never introduce Tom to his new girlfriend. He’s not a cruel man, as such. There’s a promise of a possible reconciliation in this. A friendship regained. It makes him look forward to the talk John wants to have. It might mean that John’s okay with him being gay, and that maybe he isn’t completely bothered by Tom’s crush. “What’s her name?”

“Phoenix. Like the bird rising out of the ashes, reborn in fire.”

“John…” Tom says, raising a bemused eyebrow.

“What?”

“You’re not… you’re not dating a stripper, are you?” he asks with a teasing smirk. John says he’s a jealous lover. A girl who works, taking her clothes off for other men for a living… it wouldn’t end well.

John gives him a startled, confused look. Then his eyebrows rise in realisation and he bursts out laughing, shaking his head. “Bro, I’d like to see you say that to her face,” John says with a sly gleam in his eyes. He sniggers and shakes his head again. 

So she’s not a stripper. Considering how funny John found the idea, she must be something opposite. A police officer perhaps? Tom could easily see John date a cop. Or maybe she’s an extremely religious woman. Or… 

Tom gets lost in his musings, trying to figure out who she might be. John chuckles to himself now and then.

“So how are you and Grace doing? I saw that there were some friction,” John says when the silence has held long enough for them to almost have finished smoking their cigarettes.

“Not good. When she’s far away, like now, I love her and wish her all the best. But when we’re near each other I find myself wanting to scratch her eyes out. Figuratively.”

“Cathy and I’d felt like that for a long, long time. Except we wanted to scratch each other’s eyes out when we were apart too.”

“I’m going to insist on a divorce in a couple of months.”

“Why not now?”

Tom puts his cigarette out in the ashtray, exhaling the last smoke. “Because I’m not ready to stand on my own two legs yet. Noah said he’d move with me if we separate today, but he’s soon finished with high school. Then there’s college. He’d be moving out pretty quickly.”

“Living alone isn’t all that bad.”

“To you maybe. But I’m trying not wanting to die. I’m trying to want a future. It’s so damned hard. You told me to hold on, but left me with nothing to hold on _to_. It’s been rough, John. I had a complete breakdown when my father died. I just lost it. Drank myself beyond senseless. I kept having flashbacks, so vivid it felt like I was there, re-living them. I remembered things I had long forgotten. Like jumping out of the window when I was five, because mom had made some shitty remark about it being a shame you couldn’t trade in kids for a new one at the factory, and I remembered that we got a new fridge or whatever when it didn’t work. So my five year old self did the logical conclusion that if I was dead, they’d get a new kid, and be happy with me for doing something right for a change.” Tom’s getting worked up, gesturing with his hands. John’s quiet, listening, dividing his attention between the road and Tom. 

Tom goes on. “I’ve been taught to hate myself from the moment I was born. I thought all this self-loathing, shame, and guilt I’ve been lugging around came with realising I was gay. But no. It’s a lifetime of thinking I’m trying to change, and I’m just not ready to leave home yet. Hell, I consider it a win to be able to handle all the household chores again. But it’s a damn fragile thing.”

“The devil you know isn’t always better than the devil you don’t. Moving out may be the best thing you’ll ever do.”

“In time, Johnny. In time.”

John’s lips twitch in a little smile. “It must have felt really satisfying to be the lone heir to your dad’s part of your parents assets, with what they put you through. I’m not sure I would have been as generous as you, allowing your mom to keep possession of the house until she dies. I’d probably have demanded my cut, and force her to sell.”

“What?”

“I helped Noah with the paperwork for the will. I saw your signature on the document.”

Tom rolls his eyes exasperatedly and digs his phone out of the pocket. He holds up a finger to John, frowning at his phone. “One moment.” Then he calls Noah. “Son, when you forge my signature, you better damn well tell me the next time,” he says sternly, the moment Noah answers. “I need to know what I’ve supposedly done so I can corroborate any bullshit story you make up. Is that clear? And while we’re on the subject, I might not have been interested in dad’s will, but I might have wanted to sign over the inheritage to you, Jessi, and Juss straight away. So you might have _asked_ me.”

John’s eyes has gone round and he makes an ‘o’ out of his mouth. Then he pulls his lips down in a ‘yikes’-expression.

Noah stutters some nervous, useless excuse, that Tom isn’t interested in hearing. He can very clearly imagine the guilty, half-panicked expression that goes with the stuttering. “Enough, Noah. We’ll talk about this later. I’m with John right now. We’re going to―“ he moves the phone from his ear and looks John inquiringly. “Where are we going?”

“Bellingham.”

Tom’s mind hiccups for a beat. Coincidence. It makes sense. John loves the sea. Bellingham is the closest coastal town, which is why he chose the location to feel near John when he said goodbye to his parents. He puts the phone back to his ear. “―Bellingham. I don’t know when I’ll be back. You’ll make do without me for awhile, right?”

Noah assures him that he will.

“Good. I’m not mad about _what_ you forged, by the way. I would have said yes to that even when I was pissed off. I’m angry at you for lying about it. So you know what we’ll talk about when I get home. Don’t fret. Caroline coming over tonight? ….Alright. You kids have fun. Love you. Bye.”

“I’m sorry. I really thought you’d signed those papers. It looked like your signature and the content was so, _you_. I don’t get why Noah might have thought he had to forge something like that,” John says when he hangs up.

“It might have to do with how I reacted when I found my mom at my doorstep, and what I said to her when she said dad was dead. It’s when I snapped.”

“What did you say?”

Tom tries to remember. “I said something about how I didn’t care, and that they were shit parents. I only remember one part clearly. I said; ‘You can go to Hell, the both of you. _Oops_. Dad already has. One down, one to go.’”

John sucks in a shocked breath, then laughs in delight. “Tommy! I didn’t know you had it in you!”

“Pushed too far, seems I do. Why are you looking so happy about it? It was downright cruel, John.”

John’s smiling almost savagely, brows drawn down. “I have multiple reasons not to wish them well. Biggest reason is how they’ve treated you. I don’t easily forgive when people hurt those I care about.”

“You still care about me?”

“Of course, Tommy. Don’t be daft. Who’s Caroline?” John answers, skipping away from the topic.

Tom smiles, a warm burst in his chest. Another hopeful statement. He presumes this touches upon the things that are personal, that John wants to talk about when he’s somewhere he feels comfortable. “Noah’s girlfriend. Caroline Watson?”

“Oh, yeah? She used to take equestrian lessons in the same group as Gemma when she was younger…”

They skirt into easier topics, talk about Noah’s mission, and impersonal things. Conversation flows as easily as it’s always done. There’s still tension underneath, and at some points John does these subject changes, jumping away from hot topics. John’s nerves return when they reach Bellingham. He parks the car outside of Bellingham Marina and leads the way out on the docks. Tom follows, heart beating faster, a suspicion starting to scratch in the back of his head. John stops in front of a berthage and steps aside when Tom catches up. He makes a sweeping gesture towards the large cuddy cabin boat anchored there, wearing an amused grin. “Tom, let me introduce you to my stripper girlfriend, Phoenix,” he says and sniggers, confirming the suspicion.

“No. John, you little _shit_ ,” Tom protests with a laugh. “You could have said something!” 

“What would be the fun of that?”

Grinning, Tom claps John on the shoulder, giving his upper arm a squeeze, all without thinking. “Shit, John. I’m so happy for you.”

John beams at him and claps a hand over Tom’s hand that’s gripping his upper arm. _That’s_ when Tom realises he’s touched John. Not only touched him, but gotten the touch accepted and reciprocated. He’s jubilant. Fizzy bubbles all over and cheeks getting hotter. 

“You want to go for a ride?” John asks.

“Of course I do!” Lord, he’s such a goner. He’s longed to be back at sea with― _Back?_ Jesus, it was just dreams… 

_It’s literally a dream come true,_ Tom thinks with elated amusement.

He can still feel the warmth of John’s hand on the back of his own after John lets go and climbs aboard the boat. Tom follows, almost losing his balance. John catches his arm, steadying him, and sniggers. “We’ve gotta work on those sea legs of yours,” he says with an amused glint in those warm, brown eyes. The cloudless sky and the water reflects in them, almost making them seem blue. It gives Tom such a strong feeling of deja vú that his heart lodges in his throat for a beat.

“Hey. Don’t pick on me. I’m practically invalid,” Tom jokes and pats his injured leg.

“Pfft. Oh, I’m sorry. You want me to carry you instead?” John teases sarcastically.

“Why, yes. But that has nothing to do with my ability to use my legs,” Tom says and waggles his eyebrows. 

Flirting. 

Because he’s a moron and can’t help himself.

John chuckles, climbing towards the cockpit on the catwalk deck. He throws a mischievous glance over his shoulder, smirking. “Oh, lazy are you? Want me to do all the work, do you?” he teases, then tuts.

Flirting _back._

_That can’t be right. I must be misreading this._

There’s a thousand confused thoughts at once clamoring to be heard in Tom’s head. One, John must have made his peace with Tom’s sexuality. Two, John still trusts him. Three, John’s definitely comfortable here. All the other thoughts can wait. “You’re the fit one, I’m merely offering you the chance to show off,” Tom counters, following him.

“ _Mmm_ hm. So that’s why, huh? We’ll see about that,” John says, lopsided smirk and twinkle in his eyes when Tom reaches the cockpit.

“Will we?” Tom asks, lifting his eyebrow meaningfully, smirking, narrowing his eyes like a cat.

John’s cheeks colour, he laughs silently, shaking his head, then ducks into the cabin, out of sight. Still fleeing when things get too much. Tom’s completely okay with that now that John’s fully aware of the ‘rules of the game’. The whole exchange had been heavy with innuendo from both of them. John’s a friggin’ tease. Tom bets he knows it too. 

Tom looks around curiously. The cockpit has a small table and seats by the stern, another seat next to the entrance to the cabin, and a seat for the driver (captain, or whatever the driver’s called on a boat).

John comes back with two life jackets. “Here. Put this on,” he says and hands one over. “You want a beer?”

“Sure.” 

Tom puts the life jacket on while John ducks back into the cabin. When he comes back he’s put on his own life jacket and carries two opened beers, handing one to Tom. He clinks their bottles together and takes a swig. “I’ve been living on her for the last couple of months. Found her in Cali with a for sale sign on. While I was standing there, the owner showed up. Offered to take me out on a trip. Great guy. Named John too. He loved her, but they were moving inland. I asked him if he could hold off sales. When he asked for how long, I told him about the divorce, that I didn’t want to make my lifelong dream another thing for her to fight about. So John let me borrow her until the divorce was final. Can you believe that? He just…” John looks out over the marina with a soft, perplexed smile. “He wanted me to have her. Told me to pay once it was done. He didn’t even know me. He said ‘Son, I can recognise myself in you. The same longing in the eyes, as I had before I got my first boat.’ He cared less about money than he did about the boat ending up in the hands of someone who was actually going to use her.”

Tom’s listening, sipping his beer, all warm inside. “People are like that, John.”

John chuckles and side eyes him fondly. “ _You_ are. Not people. I must say, for someone who’ve been harassed his whole life, your view of mankind is surprisingly altruistic.” He gestures towards the cabin. “Take a look. Right now I keep the bed as a bed, full time. It can be converted to a table and seats. I’ve got a small pantry, a toilet I only use for emergencies, and that’s about it. Lots of storage space though.”

Tom ducks inside. It’s a lot more spacious than it looks from the outside, yet as a permanent living space, it’s cramped. The pantry is to one side just where you get in, the tiny toilet on the other, and the bed―big enough for two―straight ahead, taking up most of the space. Most of the interior design is made in teak and mahogany. “Where do you shower?”

John leans up against his back, peeking over his shoulder, holding himself on the sides of the door frame. (Is it called that? Tom knows nothing about boats.) “In the marina or whatever port I’m at. Currently I’m going from office to office, having a consultant position. The company mostly put me up in hotels, even if this counts as my permanent residence. I’m planning to buy a house, I just don’t know where yet. It depends a lot on how our talk goes.”

Tom turns around in surprise, coming face to face with only inches between them. Close enough that John’s nervous little exhaled chuckle is a warm puff on his skin, before John backs up, flustered, sending Tom’s pulse is racing.

“Look, Tom. I’ve got a lot to say to you, not all of it good. I want you back in my life, but you may not want that. After our talk, you might hate me. I don’t know. But not a single day goes by when you don’t cross my mind. And I’d really like to take you out on a trip with Phoenix, like we talked about on our… um, when you came over for dinner. So what do you say? Go out, drop anchor, pop some champagne to celebrate that we got to do this. Then talk it out?” John bites his lower lip, eyes begging him to say yes.

_...Not a single day goes by when you don’t cross my mind…_   
_...Not a single day goes by when you don’t cross my mind…_   
_...Not a single day goes by when you don’t cross my mind…_

John had been thinking of him too, all this time. 

He doesn’t know whether to fistpump, cry, dance, panic, get mad (because why the hell had John stayed away, if that was true?), or any other of the vast number of feelings warring inside.

Why would he ever hate John?

_...Not a single day goes by when you don’t cross my mind…_

John wants him back. 

There’s a big **YES!!!** thundering in his head.

There is a God.

Like he could have doubted, with all that’s been going on around Noah.

_...Not a single day goes by when you don’t cross my mind…_

He smiles at John. “Sounds perfect.”

John grins. “Great! Let me just…” He disappears out of view and Tom hears the engine start. 

Tom comes back out of the cabin to see John squirrel to the bow. “You want any help?” Tom calls to him.

“No. Just sit down and watch me show off,” John says, throwing him a wink and a smile. John jumps off the boat to untie her, skips back, winding the ropes in a loop that he hides in a hatch by the bow. Tom sits down in the seat beside the cabin entrance, on the opposite side of the steering wheel. He watches as John squirrels back, quick and sure on his feet, goes to the stern to pull the anchor up. It’s obvious that he’s done this many times before. Every move is practised and efficient. It doesn’t take long before he’s back in the cockpit, in the driver’s seat, backing the boat out of the berthage.

Any manned boat they pass close range is met by a friendly wave. They go slow until they’re out on open water. John puts on sunglasses to protect himself from the glare of the sun. His hair is ruffled by the breeze, and he’s so, _so_ handsome. He gives Tom an impish grin and tells him to hold on, then goes full speed.

Tom can’t keep the delighted laughter in. The wind makes talking hard at this speed, and the boat jars every time they hit a wave, but the sense of freedom is tremendous. John slows down. “You want to try?”

“I’d love to.”

John jumps down from his position and motions Tom to come over. He grabs his beer from the cup holder and stands behind Tom when Tom takes the driver’s seat. He points out quickly where the gas is, what the navigation equipment does, and tells Tom to slow down if they pass by another boat, then lets Tom have a go.

Tom _loves_ it. 

That John remains standing close behind his seat may influence him a bit too. Especially since any glance backward shows John looking mostly at him, not the sea. The sunglasses can’t hide that. John seems perfectly content with not steering, while sipping his beer and holding onto the wooden rails for the purpose, just to the side of Tom.

When the waters start becoming dotted with islands again, they trade place and go slower. John takes her in close to a small island and drops anchor. Without asking, Tom climbs out of the cockpit and goes to the bow. It’s his favourite place to sit. Or, in the dreams he had, it is. He sits down, feeling that this, indeed, is his favourite place. Looking out over the sea with nothing to obscure the view, bobbing with the shallow waves, the sound of water clucking against the hull. It’s all so beautiful. The smell of the sea, the gulls overhead, a couple of ducks of some sort swimming near the nearest island. The sun sparkles like diamonds in the blue water. On an overcast day the water would seem silver, or dark green. But today it reflects the blue sky to perfection. The air is moist and the temperature warm, but not hot. There’s a breeze that just makes it… _perfect_.

John comes to join him, carrying a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He sits down beside Tom, putting his feet over the side of the boat, hands Tom the glasses, and peels the foil off the champagne cork. He puts the foil in his pocket, removes the muselet, pocketing it as well. Then he holds the bottle away from them while he opens it. The corks come shooting off with a loud _POP_ , spurting champagne out in the water.

Tom chuckles. “Amateur. That’s not how you open champagne. You’ve got to be gentle, but firm. Keeping the cork well in hand,” he says with a sly, teasing smirk while John pours the champagne for them.

“Uh- _huh_?” John says with amusement, meeting his gaze. He’s pushed the sunglasses up on his head, keeping his locks out of his face and putting his beautiful eyes on full display.

“Yes. Doing it your way, it will just explode in your face. The way I do it, you won’t spill a drop, and get so much more… _pleasure_ , out of it.” 

_Jesus Christ. What are you doing, Tommy boy?_

John’s lip draw up in a corner. “I wouldn’t know. You’re a lot more experienced than me in the matter,” John counters, eyes twinkling. “Am I to gather that you don’t like when… _champagne_ , explodes in your face?”

_Oh Dear Lord!_

This must be one of these alternative universes he’s hallucinated before. Once again, his pulse is aflutter in excitement, his inside feeling hot. He shrugs offhandedly without breaking gaze. “I don’t particularly mind. ...If that’s your preference,” he says, lowering his head a notch, meaningful smirk dancing on his lips, and raises his glass for a toast. Flirting with John goes on autopilot. But he isn’t as discreet about it, since _John is flirting right back_! He doesn’t understand these signals. 

No. He _does_. He definitely understands them.

He just isn’t sure why John’s doing it. Is it a game? Does he enjoy the tease? Doesn’t he understand what a total havoc he’s wreaking inside of Tom? Because it can’t mean― It just _can’t_. Can it?

_Can it_?

No. He’s letting himself get carried away, getting his view skewed by the ghost of John he’s kept up a relationship with. Most likely John’s showing him he’s comfortable with his sexuality and having fun with the flirting. They’d been acting flirty before, when John wasn’t aware of it. Maybe John’s going on some autopilot too, only aware of what he’s doing this time?

John raises his glass to clink it together with Tom’s, lips twitching and holding the stare. None of them break eye contact while they drink and tension’s amping up by the second.

John lowers his glass, licks his lips, bites his lower lip, smiling. Tom’s gaze flicks to his mouth to track the moment, then back up again. He can’t help it.

John’s the one to break first. He bends his head, shakes his head and laughs silently. “Stop. I see where this is going.” He looks up, still smiling. “We’re coming at it from the wrong direction. I’d thought we could just chat for a bit before I approached serious matters, but I see now that it can’t wait, or I’m going to mess this up.”

“Am I making you uncomfortable?”

John shakes his head. “Not in the least. I just wasn’t prepared for this. I’d prepared myself for getting the door slammed in my face the moment you saw it was me.”

Tom frowns in confusion. “Why would I do that?”

“Tommy. I was a complete dick towards you. To be fair, you took a sledgehammer to my whole worldview, while I’m was in the middle of my divorce, to boot. Plus, there’s a risk that you might have seen a couple of heavily edited videos of me that Justin took, that would make you think very unfavourable of me.”

“Videos?”

John nods and sips his champagne. He’s serious now, but still relaxed. “I told you that Jessi flirted with me, right? Well, Justin filmed the occasions, then cut away some parts, making it look much more inappropriate than it was. In fact, if you still want to keep in contact with me after we’re done talking, I think I’d want you to ask Juss for those videos, if he still has them. We’ll watch them together, sort it out. I never stepped out of line with your daughter, Tom.”

“I never thought you would.”

“No. But I danced with her when she seemed very insecure about her height before a date, and she coaxed me into helping her put on sunscreen at one time. It looks a lot worse than it was.”

“I trust my daughter, and I trust you, John. There’s no need to. If you say you didn’t do anything, you didn’t,” Tom says.

John scrutinizes him for a beat, then nods and looks away, out over the water. “I tried to rehearse this talk, but I couldn’t. There are just so many things I have to say to you. I don’t really know where to begin…”

“What I’m currently wondering about is why Juss filmed Jessi coming onto you?” Tom asks. That disturbs him somewhat.

“Good start. Justin’s very protective of you. And he’s sly as hell. He foresaw the possibility of me finding out. I visited him. Did you know that?”

Tom nods. “He said you came to make sure he knew I didn’t send him to college just because I was sleeping with him.”

John turns his head to look at him. “He said that?” he asks, sounding almost surprised.

“He used other words, but yes.”

“I bet he did,” John grumbles dryly. “It was why I went there. But the moment he heard I knew, the little shit threw blackmail material in my face, to make sure I kept my mouth shut. I wouldn’t have told anyone either way, but it was… unanticipated. He’s got a cunning, unscrupulous side to him.”

“Shit. No wonder he didn’t want to talk about it.” 

“Mh. He could have turned the tide. I told him to send everything to Cathy, and warned him it would break our friendship, possibly Jessi’s too, if he did. _And_ yours. I pretended I didn’t care, but honestly, if Cathy had gotten hold of that shit, I would have been the one walking away with nothing. In a way, it was lucky I spotted you with the guy when I did. A couple of months further in on the divorce…” John digs his phone out of his pocket, fiddles with it, and hands it over to Tom. Tom puts his glass down and takes it, looking at the photo. “If any of the shadows Cathy put on me had spotted _that_...” John goes on while Tom stares at the picture of the two of them. “The divorce happened behind locked doors in Pine Glen court, in front of Judge Harlan. Imagine how he would have ruled, had he seen something like that.”

The photo shows John and him on the swings in their backyard. John’s pulled his swing close, their foreheads are nearly touching. John’s cupping his cheek, they’re smiling, gazes locked with what to Tom is God damned heart eyes, boyishly happy. It takes a moment for Tom to remember the occasion. John had been pat-slapping his cheek, and had just made some silly joke Tom can’t remember, before leaning away just as quickly. But that doesn’t show on the picture. “Justin took this?”

“And many, _many_ more like it. Swipe left to see the next. I only got two, but the other one is even worse.”

Tom swipes left and sucks in a breath. “Shit.”

It’s taken in one of their wrestling matches that Juss had been part of. It only shows them to the chest. Tom’s on his back on the mattress in the den, John on top of him, resting his head against his collarbone. They’re both red faced and sweaty. You can see that they’re wearing tank tops, but that doesn’t matter. The heavy eyelids, the blush and sweat, the exerted, satisfied expressions… they _look_ post-coital. Even if this picture wasn’t taken out of context it would have been highly inappropriate. There’s no way they’d get out of it with ‘just friends’. In Pine Glen, friendships like this didn’t exist amongst grown men. By the time you reached your twenties, you should have learned that this was wrong within the congregation. Worse, Judge Harlan was a highly esteemed friend of Tom’s parents, always firmly supporting their crusade against sodomites and their ilk.

“ _Shit_ ,” Tom repeats.

“You could say that. At the time, all it would take was a camera shutter going off with good timing and Cathy’s people could have taken thousands of pictures just like these. I would have been fucked. _We_ would have been royally screwed.”

“They were taken out of context.” Tom hands the phone back reluctantly. He wants those pictures. He can feel those worms of anxiety crawl in his belly again. If this is how they looked, why hadn’t his family reacted as if something was amiss? But then again, they’d visited Tom with his teammates during games. They’d seen ‘male camaraderie’ up close. Plus, their household had always been open with affection. The kids had seen Grace sit in John’s lap. They’d seen Juss being comfortable with touching and being near both John and Tom. And Tom had seen Juss be quite affectionate with both Jessi and Noah. Noah still could curl up to his side when they watched TV when he needed to be comforted after a rough day. This was _normalised_ in their household. That’s the only explanation Tom can come up with.

“Not that it would have mattered, but were they? Were they really? The pictures showed pretty clearly how we felt about each other at the time. That’s why I couldn’t be seen with you out of public’s eye, Tom. In private, chances were, I’d fall back into being _us_ , and I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t sort out things with you, and sort out my own homophobia and all those feelings, while having the threat of Cathy catching wind of this hanging over me.”

“You could have told me that.”

“No. That’s where my own homophobia came into the picture. I was sorting out my feelings, and until I knew the outcome, I couldn’t tell you, or I might give you false hope. I’m a man of my word. I don’t break my promises. Had I told you we could fix our friendship, then changed my mind… It would have been worse. So I was a dick to you. I’m sorry, but it was too much for me to handle. And for fuck’s sake, Tommy. You gave me three fucking days before you tried to blow your head off! You have had your whole life to figure it out, and you expect me to figure it out in three days? Fuck you for that! I loved you. Then to find out that you were something I, like everyone else in the congregation, including you, I might add, have been taught to hate since we were fucking sperms?! You expect me to have my shit together straight away?” 

John’s getting upset, pointing accusingly with a finger of the hand he’s holding the glass with. “Fuck, Tom. How would _you_ feel, if you were in my place? I could have been the reason my best friend died! First the kiss, then you with the gun? I’ve had _nightmares_ about being too late. About hearing the shot, coming back to find―“ John’s voice breaks, he bends his head away, squeezing his eyes together and presses his hand over his eyes. “Sorry. Give me a moment. I thought I’d calmed down enough to talk about this without...”

Tom’s got a lump in his throat and stomach twisting in guilt. The acute pain in John’s eyes just before he hid them, makes him want to cry. “I’m sorry…” It feels weak. It can’t cover what John must have felt.

John answers, head still directed away from him, with his hand hiding his eyes. “I put you up there with Gemma, when it came to most important people in my life. And I could have been the reason you shot yourself. Fuck, but those dreams... I hardly dared to sleep, or they’d come and haunt me.”

Tom hesitantly reaches out and touches John’s shoulder. When he doesn’t pull away, Tom rubs him over the shoulder blade, in a weak attempt to comfort. “I know it isn’t a comfort to hear, but I had longed for death for a long time, John. I made up my mind to go ahead with it, that day by the pool, the same day Juss got the phone call from college. The day I started flirting with you for real. I figured, I was going to die anyway, so why not live a little? In my mind, the counter was set. I wasn’t needed anymore. I was holding on, day by day, _because_ of you, so it wasn’t the other way around.”

“It amounts to the same, though, doesn’t it? It hinged on me.”

Tom doesn’t answer. 

John takes a couple of deep breaths before removing the hand and draining his champagne. He gestures for Tom to hand him the bottle, Tom takes it and tips it partway in an offer to refill, so John holds out his his glass for Tom to pour. 

“I didn’t intend to tell you about the nightmares. I'm not here to guilt trip you for being depressed. But you might as well know that seeing you with your gun against your head is one of _the_ worst experiences in my life. Whether or not I understand you is a moot point. It’s not okay. End of story,” John says, twirling his glass. “I think that we might need to talk this out properly, if you want me back in your life. If not I may fling it in your face when we fight. But that’s for another day. I’ve got too much to say right now, and that’s in the past.” He takes a deep breath and gives Tom a quick half-smile with lips pressed together. “You asked about Gemma, right?”

“Yes. After what you told me, I find it odd that she’d take Cathy’s side. Noah said she’d met Gemma and that she was saying a lot of nasty things about you.” Tom sips his champagne, looking at him imploringly. John’s emotions have calmed down, put back under lid again. “Although, you did leave her mother with nothing.”

“Yes. And that’s a big reason, but during the course of the divorce, she was equally mad at both of us. In the beginning at least. Cathy loves Gemma, and I didn’t want to trashtalk Cathy to my daughter… or I _wanted_ to, but I didn’t. Trying to keep you as my moral compass. Cathy wasn’t so picky about it, and made me look like the sole asshole. I said _some_ things to Gemma. Lost my temper and yelled at her, asking why the hell she couldn’t see why I wanted a divorce when her mom had a new boyfriend. Correction, ‘whore of a mom’, I think was the words of choice. Turned out Gemma didn’t know that. And that was halfway through the divorce.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Well. She was mad at both of us. I suppose it only makes sense that she was more concerned with comforting the loser. But…” John sighs and lays down, dangling his legs over the bow, looking up at a seagull in the sky. “I lost my daughter for another reason. I’m mad as hell at Gemma, Tom. I’ve given up 20 fucking years of my life for her. Both Cathy and I have. One would think it’d mean something to her. I know what you’re going to say. ‘Kids don’t owe their parents squat’, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling hurt and betrayed.”

“What did she do?”

John turns his head and looks at him. He rests the foot of the champagne glass on his chest, reaches out and runs his fingers briefly over the back of the hand Tom’s supporting himself with, leaving tingles in his wake. “Our congregation is poison, Tommy. It makes us narrow-minded, bigoted, and hateful. All of us. The change Noah put in motion, couldn’t have come soon enough.” He puts the hand behind his head and stares up in the sky again, falling quiet for a beat. “After the divorce was finalised, I came out to Gemma as bisexual―“

Tom sucks in a shocked breath, pulse jumping. “John, just because you have sex with a man once, while drunk out of your mind, doesn’t make you bisexual. I can get it up for Grace too when I’m drunk enough. You―“

John chuckles and sits up, pressing a finger to Tom’s mouth to shut him up. He grins at Tom, shaking his head, eyes fond. “Be quiet and let me talk,” he says before removing his hand. Tom takes a sip from his glass, mouth dry, feeling guilty, nervous, excited, confused. John goes on. “I came out to her. She called me a disgusting pervert, along with a number of slurs I bet you have had directed at you many times during your life. She said she never wanted to see me again. Maybe she’ll change her mind in a year or two. Maybe not. Maybe the thing with her mother, and all those fights she’s had to live with, growing up, amounts to too much to forgive. But my sexuality isn’t something for her to _forgive_. It’s for her to accept. Not some wrongdoing of mine, towards her.” 

“You didn’t have to tell―“

“Shut up. I did. I’m not ashamed. If I pursue a relationship with a man, I’m not going to hide him either. This is who I am, and anyone who can’t handle that, can go fuck themselves. My daughter included. It _hurts_ , and I’m not gonna lie, I’ve cried my fucking eyes out about her. If you love someone, you see beyond. But then again, it took me some time to get my ducks in a row concerning you. Gemma deserves time too. I hope, that if she stands by her decision of never wanting anything to do with me again, it has to do with how I’ve treated her mother during this divorce, not because of who I love or sleep with. Because as justified as _I_ think I am, I could’ve stood by the fifty-fifty split, and only defended myself, instead of responding in kind. But I think too highly of myself to do that, and when it comes to Gemma, it’s biting me in the ass.” 

“Shit.” Tom’s stunned. Horrified. Scared. Disbelieving. If John did this just because they’d sex once…

John chuckles again, looking at him. “You think this is your fault, don’t you?”

John reads him too well.

“Isn’t it?”

John smirks, looking down at his champagne. He drains the glass, reaches for the bottle, pours more for himself and tops up Tom’s glass as well. “You say it like it’s a bad thing. It’s not. Look, Tommy… when I spotted you with that guy, I was stunned, then angry. You know what I felt between the shock and the anger?” He locks gaze with Tom, quirks an eyebrow, small smile playing on his lips.

“Repulsion?”

“Nu-uh. _Jealousy_.”

Tom’s shellshocked. He must look it, because John sniggers.

“That’s right, Tommy. My initial reaction was wanting to rip that guy off what was _mine_. That, more than anything, was why I ran. I didn’t just have to re-examine _your_ behaviour. I had to re-examine mine. I’d experienced jealousy about Justin before, but pinned it down to a friendship thing. I’d managed to find ways to excuse more or less any behaviour before, because in my mind, it was never an option. All the sudden I had to face that it was. I had a whole bunch of feelings I didn’t know what to do with, that I shouldn’t be feeling, if I was as straight as I thought I was. It didn’t automatically cancel out my homophobia though. I was a fucking mess inside. What happened in the car three days later, didn’t help.”

“But, but… you said it was just a kiss.“

John throws his head back laughing. “Who do you think I was trying to convince? Tom, we kissed and fucking hallelujah choirs sang to me. It set off more fireworks than first of July. There was nothing ‘ _just_ ’, about that kiss.” He smiles fondly at Tom, then laughs again. “You should see your face right now, Tom. I didn’t think this would come as such a shock to you. Really, I didn’t.”

“I thought you were straight.”

“So did I. I guess that’s why you did too, huh? But honestly, it shouldn’t have been such a big surprise to either of us. The first time I thought of what it would have been like, kissing you, was when you almost did, to impress those girls. You remember?”

“Mhm.”

“My thoughts were something like ‘shit, he’s going to kiss me, what do I do?’, then, disappointment when you didn’t. I even managed to come up with an excuse for why it wouldn’t have been gay, during the circumstances. There’s been so many instances when I should have realised I was bisexual, but didn’t. Take that day at the pool for an instance. You had me pushed up against the pool edge, bit me, and I was _so. Turned. On._ I had to rush inside to put ice down my pants, wondering what the hell was wrong with me.”

“Really?” Tom’s confusion is starting to be traded for wonder.

“Really, really. That’s just one of many occasions when I reacted to your behaviour, in a way that wasn’t straight at all. Although, since I thought I was straight, and that you were straight too, it wasn’t all that hard to explain most of it as bromantic.” John puts down his glass. “Hold on, I need a smoke,” he says, then gets to his feet, leaving Tom to try to sort his thoughts and feelings out.

_...Every time I’ve gotten mixed signals… John’s a jealous lover… He didn’t want Cal to touch what was his…_

It must mean that even if he hadn’t felt as strongly as Tom, the feelings were definitely reciprocated. And what’s to say he hadn’t? By all means, it doesn’t mean the feelings are intact. But judging by his flirtiness today, they’re definitely _there_. The chemistry between them is certainly still there.

_Christ! That must have made it even worse, finding me trying to kill myself._

The ever present guilt tries to get heard, drowned out by hope and thrilled, nervous excitement. He feels unhinged, floating, like this isn’t real. 

John comes back with a pack of cigarettes and a little jar filled with sand. He sits down, closer than before, puts down the makeshift ashtray, opens the pack and offers Tom to take one. Tom does, and John lights the lighter for him, forcing him to lean in closer to get to the flame. John bites his lip over a smirk, watching Tom suck on the cig to get it burning. 

Tom leans back again, side eyeing John. He blows out smoke. “You’re God damned tease, you know that?”

John chuckles, looking smug, while lighting his own cig. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be flirting with you yet.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I bet.” John shakes his head. “We need to clean the air about the night we had sex. I want you to forgive me for it, and I don’t regret it, but I’m still sorry.”

Tom frowns. “I’ve already forgiven you. Besides, you were drunk. You didn’t know what you were doing.” 

“No. You don’t know what I did to you. It’s worse than you think. It’s the worst thing I’ve done to you, and it was on purpose, so let me tell you exactly how royally I fucked you over, when I came to you that night. It’s one of those things you need to know, that may change your mind as to whether you want me back.” John looks at him seriously.

Tom can’t fathom what he’s talking about. Yes, the circumstances were bad and emotionally damaging. But judging by what John’s told him, he was a complete emotional mess at the time. He takes a drag on the cigarette and motions for John to go on.

“I’d been trying to come to terms with the fact that I probably was bisexual, and more importantly, was hung up on you. I kept trying to deny it, and thought perhaps I’d blown it all up in my head. I was wondering if I _could_ have sex with a guy. If I could like it. If I could imagine myself being involved with you, like that. I wanted the answer to be no. It would be so much easier. I was hovering in between acceptance, and rejecting the idea. I had bitterly, more or less accepted that you were gay. I could see us repairing the friendship some day. But figuring myself out, I _needed to know_. I was in no way ready to let you, or anyone else know, that I had these thoughts. Again, if I’d told you, it would equal making promises I couldn’t make. Giving you hope.”

“Okay…?” Tom could understand all these things, but the way John’s looking at him, _grave_ , tells him there’s more to it, and it’s making him nervous.

“I planned in advance. Keeping tabs on you, and on my tail, making sure I could shake them and get you alone, undisturbed. I took no heed for your emotions. In fact, I used the things you’d told me in confidence, and made assumptions. I wasn’t going to let you say no.”

“What do you mean?”

John’s face goes harder and he averts his gaze to track the flight of a gull. “You told me about the coach raping you. And if I ever find out his name, I’m going to kill him. That’s a fact. But you won’t tell me. I know that too.”

“I don’t know his name.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m as bad as him. You told me he blackmailed you into coming back. You’ve also told me about your and Grace’s problem. If you look at it really fucking crassly, every time you have sex with her, you’re subjecting yourself to rape, out of duty. Hell, but you need to fucking drug yourself with alcohol to be able to sleep with one of the most beautiful women in Pine Glen. You have a history of allowing yourself to be subjected to sexual abuse. You were in love with me. I knew it, and I took calculated advantage of it. All of it.”

Tom raises a hand, covering his mouth, eyes big and disbelieving. He feels cold all over.

John looks back at him, dead serious. “That’s right. How’s that for betrayal? Especially towards the person I was in love with at the time. You said no, and I pushed, knowing full well that you couldn’t deny me.”

Tom shakes his head in denial. “No. You started to walk away. I pulled you back in.”

“You’re _defending_ me? Tommy, I nearly lost my nerve when you said no. Then you pulled me in and tried talking me out of it. You didn’t want to do it, and I forced it, cruelly, unscrupulously. There’s no excuse! Fuck how messed up I was, or that I was in the middle of a fucking war at the time. I loved you so fucking much, and I still went through with it. Hard, cold, calculated.” John stares at him like he’s trying to drill his betrayal into Tom’s skull, begging him _not_ to forgive him, almost desperately.

It hurts, hearing this. Except John said he loved Tom at the time. Said in past tense, but still. His feelings had been reciprocated. 

When push comes to shove, it doesn’t matter. John’s being honest. Just like the day Jessi had flirted with him. He’s giving Tom full transparency. Laying himself bare. Saying ‘look at all my bad sides, all the wrongs I’ve done you’, acknowledging them, like Tom’s parents never had. He wants everything put on the table before making a re-start. John came here, expecting rejection. And still, he came. 

He feels so much calmer all the sudden.

Tom removes the hand over his mouth. “That’s why you walled yourself off. Why you had to drink so much before. Not because you were going to have sex with a man, but because you were going to hurt someone you loved,” he challenges softly.

John nods and takes a drag of his cigarette. He looks down on the deck between his legs. “With all you’d gone through, I made myself one more bad thing to happen to you.”

“You said you don’t regret it?”

John shrugs, looking a lot more pained and regretful than he claims to be. “It had to be you. I trusted you not to rat me out. It gave me the absolute answer to all my questions. _And_ I got to have sex with you. However fucked up the circumstances were, it got me through some pretty shitty nights, imagining how it could have been, under the right circumstances.”

“You said you loved me. Not anymore…?” Tom asks tentatively.

John looks up again, wearing a small smile. “I don’t know you, Tommy. The _real_ you. Who you are when you’re not trying to hide half of yourself. But I would like to.”

It’s better than anyone could ask for. Another burst of warmth in his chest, heart fluttering joyfully. “I’d like that too,” he says and smiles.

John’s small smile widens to a grin. He takes a drag on the cigarette, gaze locked with Tom, who mirrors him. “Does that mean that you forgive me?” John says when he’s exhaled.

“It would take a much bigger betrayal than that, for me not to forgive,” Tom assures him.

John grimaces. “About that…” he says, regretfully. The his face goes hard and determined. “I came back, expecting you to slam the door in my face, but with a purpose. I promised you we’d take care of your shit when I’d worked out mine. Now I have. _You_ told me I was supposed to out you. _Your_ words. Which is one hell of of a responsibility to heap on your best friend, by the way,” he says with a frown. “Nevertheless, I’m here to do that.”

_Whiplash._

Tom’s stomach plummets, mouth going dry for the upteenth time today. “No.”

“No takebacks. You told me to do it because you can’t do it for yourself. I’m here to set you free. If― “ 

But Tom isn’t listening. He feels the onsetting panic. Pins and needles, sweating, feeling cold and dizzy. He gets up on his feet and hurries towards the cockpit, nearly losing his balance on the way.

“ _Tom!_ ”

But Tom isn’t listening. He can’t breathe. If John says he’s going to do something, he will. He’ll tell everyone.. Tom’s finished. His life is over. He has to get away. But he’s stuck. The key isn’t even in the ignition. John must have foreseen this. _Shit, shit, shit!_

He grabs a hold of the doorframe of the cockpit and hangs forward, closes his eyes and tries to suck air into his lungs.

Suddenly, John’s there, hugging him from behind―as much to prevent him from falling, should he faint, as anything else―putting his chin on Tom’s shoulder. “This is why we had to be on my boat. I can’t run, and you can’t hide. It needs to happen, Tommy. Best would be if you tell them yourself. Not everybody. But this secret of yours is killing you, and it’s killing Grace. You need to tell her. And it needs to happen soon.”

“I can’t.”

“Tom, this is your albatross. You can’t be free unless you do it. I’ll do it for you, if you can’t. I’d much rather support you while _you_ do it, but it needs to be done.” John’s voice is urgent. He’s got one hand around Tom’s midriff, the other flattened out over his chest. His breath tingles on Tom’s neck. The lifejackets prevents warmth to bleed through by the torso, but the hold is comforting.

Tom tries to suck in calm breaths, tries not to hyperventilate. “I’m scared.” 

Understatement of the year. He’s _terrified_. He’s spent his whole life trying so hard to hide it. He’s just recently tried to tentatively believe that it isn’t so bad to be what he is. It doesn’t change that he’s harmed his family so much because of it.

“I know. It’ll be alright―“

“It won’t.” 

“Look, Tommy. You said it yourself, you hate lying, and it’s killing you. It’s literally killing you. Either you refuse and tell me to fuck off, and I’ll tell Grace, as one last favour. Ripping the bandaid so both of you can move on with your lives. Or, you want me back in your life, and I’ll be there every step of the way. But if you want me to stay, as a friend, or… something more than that, you need to tell your kids too, because I’m not going to allow you to hide me like something to be ashamed about. If you want me to be in the room with you, I’ll be there. I’ll make sure you come out on top of things. It’s _time_.” John’s voice is so earnest. There’s no malice in this. He considers it a favour. And maybe it is. But it feels like an execution oncoming.

“What if they don’t want me as a dad anymore? What if Grace tell others? What if they hate me?”

“Hey, hey. Look at me.” John dislodges him from the doorway and manhandles him to twist him around, pushing him against the driver’s seat. He grabs Tom’s cheeks in his hands and forces him to look him in the eyes. “I’m not going to lie, Tommy. Maybe they will. Maybe they’ll react like Gemma. Maybe they won’t want to keep you. But they don’t know you. So until you tell them, you’re not giving them the chance to love _you_. Regardless, you’ll have me and Justin. You won’t be alone. I won’t let you fail.”

“It’s too soon.”

“No. It’s been almost 25 years. It’s time. That’s just fear talking.”

“Aw _shit_ ,” Tom feels tears coming and bends his head away, trying to hide them.

John tugs him into another hug, muttering encouragements in his ear. “It’s okay. It’s okay. Let it out. Nothing to be ashamed about. I’m here. It’s okay. I’ve cried too. It’s okay…” Tom winds his arms around him, clings, and lets himself go, crying.

 

It feels like he’s cried forever when the shitstorm of emotions inside of him finally starts cooling down. He starts becoming aware of the hand that rubs over his back, a comforting press through the lifejacket. He becomes aware of tears getting dried off his cheeks. Of sweet nothings whispered into his hairline.

“Shit. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to lose it like this,” Tom mutters between sobs, small and hiccupy. “What must you think of me?”

“I think you’ve lived in fear so long you don’t know how not to. Don’t be ashamed. It’s time to move on. I’ll help.” John reaches out and procures a couple of napkins from somewhere, then hands them to Tom.

Tom dries his eyes and blows his nose before he dares to look up, meeting only empathy and concern in John’s brown eyes. “How do we do this?”

John looks relieved and smiles warmly. “I don’t know, Tommy. Either you get the whole family together or take them one by one with a couple of days apart to recuperate emotionally. I’ll be there with you. In the room, or just outside, if you prefer. If you want to take the coward's route, you pack your shit and run away from home and I’ll tell them when you're gone. But that would be highly unfair to them.”

Tom nods to himself, looking down again. He’d been gagging to tell Noah. The words had strained to tumble out. He’d been wanting this, if he’s honest to himself. It doesn’t make it any less terrifying, but at least he won’t be alone. John is a bullheaded ox. If he puts his mind to do something, _nothing_ can deter him. There’s no way out.

That, in itself, is a relief. Getting choice ripped out of his hands. “I need something to drink. And I don’t know where my cig went.”

“You dropped it in the sea when you almost fell in. Wait, I’ll get a new one for you.” John lets go of him and leaves to go to the bow. It gives Tom the time he needs to blow his nose again, and try to put himself back together.

No wonder John had averted flirting when it got too far, when he was about to drop this bomb.

* * *


	47. Take It Slow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luck favours the brave, right?

* * *

When John comes back he’s fussing over Tom. He’s got the cigarettes and the remaining champagne. He procures some water and protein bars that he insists on Tom eating before he smokes. It goes a long way, helping Tom to calm down. He feels awfully pitiful, reacting like he did. John on the other hand, seems to have expected nothing less, and is completely encouraging and kind. He’s so fussy, Tom finds himself laughing silently, despite it all. Tom’s jumped up to sit on the driver’s seat, but sits sideways. John’s standing opposite him, a bit further than just within reach.

“What’s so funny?”

Tom shakes his head, takes a drag of his cigarette, and taps off ashes into the sand jar. “Nothing. How come you could accept that you’re bisexual so quickly anyway?” he asks, trying to distract himself from the fact that he’ll be outing himself to his family soon, and everything is a huge, looming doomsday from this point forward. If you look at it from another direction, the man he loves has admitted to swing his way. 

John jumps up on the opposite seat, sideways, to face Tom straight on. “First off, I had to. The situation you were in made it urgent. Second off, you made it easy. No, no, don’t look like that. Hear me out. You are one of the best people I know. You’re kind, warm-hearted, generous, respectful, dedicated… everything I admire and look up to. Finding out you were gay… it disproved what we’d been taught about sodomites. Either, God is evil, or we are wrong. I went with the second option. Especially realising what I felt for you. I have high thoughts about myself. If I feel like I do about guys, well… I still am just as good as I ever was.” John shrugs. “It’s not… It’s not just about you, you know? When I looked back on my life, I realised I’ve had crushes on guys before. I’ve had bromances too, but looking at it from a new perspective, I could see the difference clearly. Juss was right. I _did_ have a crush on you in high school. I had a crush on a guy that worked in my office a couple of months. I had a crush on a teammate in college. I’ve felt the attraction lots of times, but the very idea was so unthinkable, I never made the connection.”

“I wish I could be as accepting of myself as you.” John’s so unfairly handsome. And brave, apparently. The difference between getting love and support from parents, growing up. Or maybe, most of all, acceptance for who you are. Being allowed to develop your own personality, getting loved and appreciated for it. Instead of being an almost 40 year old nervous wreck, who gets panic attacks when faced with doing things that will displease people. 

John tilts his head and smiles warmly at Tom, making his belly flutter. “From what I understand from our interactions today, you’re getting there.”

“The doubt is always present. Noah’s helping me, and he doesn’t even know it. I'm ashamed to say this, but I'm totally reliant on my son. A father shouldn’t be.” He takes a deep drag on the cigarette, feeling self conscious. He’s a mess, and he must look it. Probably all red and blotchy after bawling like a baby. And there is John, looking at him with his empathic warm eyes, like he’s seeing something beautiful. Tom blows out smoke in a self-deprecating little laugh. “It’s funny, because Noah’s told me that he has too much on his plate to help me too. But it seems like the things he needs me for, is what's helping me.”

“Yeah? Because he says that whenever he’s overwhelmed and hanging on by a thread, you grab him and haul him back up again with a couple of simple words. According to him, you’re the only one who doesn’t heap expectations on him.”

“He said you kept in touch. Talked to him a lot?”

“So and so. I wanted to keep tabs on you, or I wouldn’t have been able to stay away.” John sniggers and bends his head, looking embarrassed. “Can I make a confession?”

“No. You absolutely cannot, John,” Tom says dryly and arches an eyebrow sarcastically. 

John laughs. “Right. Because that’s not today's theme,” he agrees sheepishly. “I’ve missed you, Tom,” he says when he looks up, eyes twinkling.

“ _That’s_ the confession?” Tom says, mock-unimpressed.

“No, I―“

Tom interrupts him by tutting. He squishes the cig in the sand jar and gets to his feet, draining his last champagne. John had said he wanted to know who Tom is, when he isn’t hiding. So be it. Luck favours the brave. He takes the step it takes to place himself between John’s knees. John stills, looking up at him, lips slightly curved upward. Tom leans forward towards his side, keeping eye contact. He moves slowly, as to read John clearly. Emotional rollercoaster aside, John’s spent the whole day convincing him that his advances wouldn’t be unwelcome. John’s hands curl around the side of his thighs, holding him in place loosely, confirming it. Tom lift one hand to cup the back of John’s neck, rests the other on his thigh, and aims for John’s neck, fizzy bubbles in his whole body.

John bends his neck slightly, to allow him space. Tom drags his nose and lips along his neck, closes his eyes and inhales deeply. John smells so good. He's got a new cologne, that mixes even better with his own scent, than the last one did. Tom wets his lips, opens his mouth and drags his teeth lightly over John’s neck. John lets out a soft gasp and shudders. Tom’s belly flutters. He does it again, licking the skin this time, thrilling at the goosebumps under his tongue. 

John’s arms circles his thighs, one hand curling to the inside of his thigh, the other one glides up to cup his ass. “I don’t want to take advantage of you while you're emotionally unstable,” John says, bending his neck further to give Tom full access, asking wordlessly for more. 

“Tough luck. I'm always emotionally unstable,” Tom jokes, smiling against the soft skin of the neck, scratching his nails softly against John’s scalp.

John chortles, gets a hand between them and unclasps Tom’s life jacket, making Tom let go of him when he pushes it off his shoulders. John’s other hand is keeping him locked close. Tom takes the opportunity to remove John’s life jacket too. He’s breathing heavier now. This. Every goosebump, every shiver he’d caused John back when they hung out, they were _real_. They were exactly what Tom wanted them to be. The thought is dizzying. He shrugs out of his windbreaker while he’s at it, then leans back in, giving John a nipping kiss on the jaw, winding his arms around his torso, pulling. John glides off his perch, to a leaned back, standing position, that finally puts them chest to chest, allowing warmth to bleed through fabric.

John lets his hands slide upward to grab his head, twisting his face to face him, noses touching, tasting each other’s heavy breaths for a beat before John licks his lips and closes the distance.

It’s better than in the car. 

Nothing held back, knowing this is wanted.

It’s sends thrill upon thrill down Tom’s spine, ignites heat and calms down frayed nerves all at once, erasing thoughts and fears. It makes his heart feel too big for his body, jubilantly happy, craving, hungry for more.

His hands find their way inside the hem of John’s shirt, stroking the soft skin on his back. John mirrors him, one hand on his back, another creeping down inside his pants at the back, pushing the testament of their growing arousal against each other.

“I’m thinking,” John says between kisses, “we should take it slow.” His hands and body speak another language though, grinding, grabbing, caressing.

“If you’re thinking, you’re thinking too much,” Tom answers against his lips, breath laboured. He does _not_ want to stop. 

John chuckles, kisses his way along Tom’s jaw, grabs the hem of Tom’s shirt and pulls it over his head as a way of response. “Shit, you’ve lost weight,” John mumbles when Tom’s torso is bared. Suddenly self-conscious, Tom begins to withdraw. John pulls him back close again. “I didn’t say stop, you idiot.” He kisses Tom’s throat, hugs him closer and slides his hand back inside the hem of Tom’s jeans. “I’m mad about you, Tommy. A little scrawniness ain’t gonna change that.”

Tom smirks to himself. No. It wouldn’t. John’s enthusiasm can’t be misconceived. Whatever John sees when he looks at Tom, it’s not the same as Tom sees when he looks in the mirror. The brief times they stop kissing to look each other in the eyes, John’s eyes are feverish, with the slight wonder in them, of a man who’ve waited so long he can’t fully believe something’s happening. 

With every kiss, nip and nibble, Tom’s confidence grows. This, he knows. This is familiar territory. John spins them around, backs them towards the cabin entrance, undoing Tom’s belt and zipper, only removing his mouth from skin long enough to warn Tom to watch the step. They kick off their shoes, John grabs silicon based lube, and condoms from a hidden shelf running along the side of the cabin, and lays down on the bed, bringing Tom down on top of him.

If John didn’t lie about it being his first time that night in Louisiana, then he’s a very quick study. Tom’s willing to bet a high amount of money that he’s been at it with other guys after his divorce. He’s not going to ask about it, and he doesn’t mind. John’s voracious and uninhibited, wanting anything and everything under his hands or in his mouth. When John suddenly pushes him away from his dick while getting a blowjob, saying “Woah. I’m not a teenager anymore. Make it last,” Tom laughs, furiously happy. They both have to slow each other down at times, when they get too close to coming. What was good under the worst of circumstances, is great now. Not perfect, not yet, but they’ve got time. He swears he’s going to find every little thing that makes John tick, and John seems to be just as dedicated to the task.

Tom lets John do whatever he wants. It might be understood that Tom is a top, but when John gives him a prodigious rim job, fingering him open, finding and massaging his prostate, Tom’s reduced to a whimpering mess. 

Being inside of John is next to something religious, and that’s emotions coming into play. Face to face, trading kisses, looking deep into each other’s eyes, stupid joyful smiles on their faces. If he ever had any doubt that John was one of his big loves, it’s gone now. He’s only ever felt like this, making love to Stefan and Sam before.

And John still has his stupid T-shirt on. Tom tugs it off him with some trouble, holding him up against his chest, muttering curses that makes John giggle.

Once he’s finally as naked as Tom, Tom has to pause to hold himself up above him to gawk. “Shit, John. Are you sure you've lived on a boat and not on a gym? Your body is _unholy_.” It is. It’s frigging sculpted, fitness magazine worthy. Tom would prefer a little more comfort weight, but _God_ , it’s a sight for sore eyes.

John grins. “My life spun out of control, so I controlled what I could. I like to be on top of things.”

Tom smirks impishly, grabs a hold of John’s sides and rolls to the side, flipping them over without gliding out. “In that case, ride it, cowboy,” he says and waggles his eyebrows with a shiteating grin.

John laughs. “Lazy ass,” he says and rolls his his hips. Tom lets his head fall back with a soft groan, grabs John’s hips, and starts thrusting. John has to brace himself. Being on top doesn’t mean you’re automatically the one doing the fucking.

Vexingly, Tom’s the first one to come. If anything, it turns John on even more. He slides off Tom, removes and ties the condom, throwing it on the floor, then lies down between Tom’s legs, holding himself up on one arm. He takes some lubricant in hand, smears it on his dick, and lies down fully. He starts grinding. His dick slides easily in the juncture between Tom’s leg and crotch. He kisses Tom, swallowing every whimper, caused by having his oversensitive softening cock trapped in the slick slide of their sweaty stomachs. Tom pulls his legs up, planting his soles on the bed to push up his hips so he can relieve the pressure for himself and elevate it for John. However, the move makes John’s cock glide too far back, bending, sliding downward instead. He catches on Tom’s rim and the both of them let out a little moan.

Tom rolls his hip minisculely, making the tip of John’s dick press against his hole a little more, teasing it―already pliant from the fingering earlier―a little more open. That’s all the encouragement John needs to make small thrusts, each opening the hole a bit more, thanks to the lube.

John pants wetly on Tom’s shoulder, and Tom keeps moving his hip just enough to help. 

Tom _wants_.

By God, but he wants John deep inside!

Enough to be carried away for a moment, brain post orgasm hazy and _stupid_.

He’s thought about it. About wanting to bottom again. Thought about the circumstances that started triggering him. About the fear of triggering that’s held him back for so long, and how such a great part of it could’ve been because of the current boyfriend’s penchant for dirty talking, using derogatory slurs (and wanting to hear them too) when it started happening. 

There’s no thinking involved now though, only lust.

He holds onto John, mouths at his neck, shoulder, and ear, deliriously rolling his hip helpfully to help John in, little by little. 

Not until John’s whole cockhead glides inside does his brain catch up. “You’re not wearing a condom,” he says urgently.

“I’m tested. I’m clean,” John answers with the same urgency. Voice conveying how badly he wants this.

“I’ve not been tested in a while. John,” Tom counters, stupid hips meeting John’s of their own volition.

John heaves himself up on straight arms so he can look down on Tom and meet his gaze. He’s insanely hot like this. Red from exertion, glistening with sweat, locks curling, made darker from the sweat, mouth hanging open, slicked by saliva, and muscles straining. He scrutinizes Tom, expression going pained as he edges deeper inside. His eyes are glazed, feverish.

Tom’s ready to throw caution and sanity overboard. The sight and feel of John over him like this? All he ever didn’t know he needs from life. This is how to die happy. 

John pulls out with a hiss. “Blow me,” he asks and rolls to his back.

Tom scrambles to obey, both relieved and disappointed. John could have just grabbed a condom and continued. Although, without having talked over the risk of Tom triggering, and what may cause it, it’s for the best. It doesn’t take long before John tugs his hair in warning. Tom doesn’t pop off, but goes deeper, swallowing the full load when John comes. John pulls him up for a kiss before they both collapse, panting, Tom on top.

“Okay, this did not go like I planned,” John says with a faint smile, trailing his fingers over Tom’s back, once their breathing starts to even out.

“How did you plan it?” Tom mumbles, mouthing the skin under his mouth. He feels completely safe and sated. Mellowed and joyful at the same time.

“Not to think with my heart and dick for one. There were more things we should have cleared up before we got to this point.”

“But you planned for us to get to this point?” Tom asks lazily.

“I planned for you to slam the door in my face. I _hoped_ for us to get to this point. Just not so soon.”

“No takebacks,” Tom jokes, echoing what John said about outing him. But he’s getting a bit anxious about where this is leading.

“Hell no. I’ve got no regrets, if that’s what you’re thinking. Just a couple of insecurities I wanted to have straightened out,” John says, kissing his temple. 

“Like what?”

“Like you not being out yet. Like, am I able to keep a healthy, monogamous relationship? What if I slip up and cheat on pure habit when a foxy woman offers herself?” 

“I can do open relationships,” Tom says without much thought to it. So John wants to fuck women. In his world it isn’t that much of a big deal. They both got high sex drives, as far as Tom knows. Sex is just sex. It’s not _ideal_ , but Tom’s had worse deals in his life. 

Suddenly Tom finds himself pushed around to lie on his back with John on top of him, holding himself up above him. “I _can’t_. So call me an insecure bastard, but the thought of you with someone else, fucks me up.”

“So what? You want a free pass at fucking around, but won’t allow me the same respect?” Tom reaches out to card his hand through John’s hair, calmly, smiling faintly. “I’m not buying it.” Actually, he is. It would require John to be completely honest with him about it, but he’d take it. Hell, he could be the wingman now and then. Under the right circumstances, it wouldn’t be a big deal at all. 

John doesn’t have to know that. Not yet.

“No. I don’t want that. I want us to work out. I’m _crazy_ about you, Tommy. But it might happen. I just don’t know,” John says, looking pained.

Tom’s nerves are laid to rest again. He smiles, plays with the hair on John’s chest. “If it happens, come clean and we'll sort it out when it happens. I can tell you straight away that if we’re out, and you hook up with someone else, there’s going to be a problem though.” Because that hurt. He’d been through that shit with Stefan. It’s not the same as if John would do a drunken misstep when he’s off on a prolonged business trip.

“Fuck. That would _never_ happen. Plus, there’s this other huge problem we need to address. _Sam_.”

“What about Sam?”

“You said you’d cheat on _anybody_ with him.”

“He’s not part of my life, John. He’s out of the picture,” Tom says dismissively, trailing a finger over John’s lips. 

“You say that now, but―“

Tom cuts him off. He’s not going to say it could never happen. He wouldn’t want to cheat on John, and he thinks Sam couldn’t throw him off course anymore. He’s not so sure he could be so certain, if he’s ever faced with his Kid again, especially if Sam put his bratty, devious mind to it. “Let’s say he does show up. Five years down the road, ten years, while you’re not around, and I somehow fail to resist him, if he’s even still interested. Because it would take him actively coming onto me for me to get swept away. First off, is it worth fretting about something so unlikely, that _might_ happen once in a distant future? Second, what would you do? Leave me? Is that why you’re worried you yourself would end up cheating? You think I’d drop you for a mistake?”  
John doesn’t answer. His jaw muscles tick and his nostrils flare. The look in his eyes tells Tom he might have hit a nerve.

Tom shows his teeth, eyelids lowered. A veiled threat he doesn’t mean. “You don’t want to play jealousy games with me, John,” he says, already playing it by doing, saying, this. “I’m next to immune. I’m so used to having to leave men I love, that I’ve learned to accept that loss. If you cheat on me by compulsion, I might respond in kind. Then who’s the loser? But if you’re just asking if I could forgive a mistake, then yes. Just be honest about it so we can talk it out.” The chances he’ll respond in kind are next to none. In fact, _he_ doesn’t believe for a minute that John will cheat. Stefan had been a compulsory cheat. He’d had no impulse control. Add alcohol and he could misstep even when Tom was _there_. John has good impulse control, or he would have slipped up in front of Cathy at least once over the years. He would have slept with his secretary. He would have failed to keep it in his pants during the divorce. No. Tom thinks this is just several things working together. A) John’s lived in a bad relationship for more than two decades. B) He’s just discovered he’s bi and is worried he’ll miss pussy. C) He’s jealous and Tom’s confessed his mindset about Sam. All those things will sort themselves out with time. All in all, Tom has had a number of loving, monogamous (not counting Grace) relationships based on mutual respect. As far as Tom knows, John hasn’t. 

John keeps studying him, different emotions flashing over his face, a hint of insecurity that Tom doesn’t like.

Tom pulls John down over himself and puts his lips to his ear. “You’re _mine_ now, honey. I’ll never let you go again,” he whispers. It’s not true. You can’t own people and he wouldn’t force a relationship on anyone. But he wants it to be true, wants to be that entitled. 

John doesn’t have the ownership qualms he does. To him, it’s the right thing to say. He makes a growling sound deep down in his throat, and when he turns his head to meet Tom’s eyes, all insecurity is traded for something warm and content. “Likewise,” he breathes and reaches for Tom’s right hand, gliding off Tom to lie on his side. Locking gaze with Tom, lopsided smirk playing on his lips, he removes Tom’s wedding ring from his finger. Tom’s heart speeds up, belly full of nervous butterflies. It’s such a symbolic gesture. It’s a reminder that he’s about to come out to his family, with all the consequences that entails. As well as it is a gesture of claiming, with the same weight as putting a ring _on_ would have. None of his exes had done that. And if they had, he wouldn’t have let them.

* * *

The closer they get to Pine Glen, the more nervous he gets. His leg is jumping restlessly, he’s biting his nail and rubbing his palm against his thigh, trying to get his palm less sweaty. Today is overcast and mild. They’d spent the night in a hotel in Bellingham, then stopped by a clinic to get tested in the morning, because John wants to bareback and it’s really hard to resist when emotions run high along with arousal. It feels like the time they’ve spent apart never happened, it’s so easy, falling back together. He gets why John wanted to wait before courting him though. It adds a layer of complications, especially when it comes to coming out to Grace. It’s too late to take it slow now. 

And John is out and _proud_. Tom has saddled a bull and can do nothing but hold on. At the hotel, John had held his hand and said ‘Me and my boyfriend would like a room for the night,’ like it was nothing. Like they couldn’t be denied and it was completely natural. Aside from a slight flicker of surprise from the receptionist, there was no problem.

When they ate at the restaurant, John reached over the table and stroked his hand with a warm, adoring smile that just melted Tom’s heart. It was still hard not to flinch and look around before accepting the touch. Retired or not, he may be recognised. He could still end up in the tabloids and this isn’t a ‘safe’ area, LGBT wise, even if it isn’t as bad as Pine Glen.

In bed, Tom had brought up bottoming, explaining why he’s a top, that he hasn’t always been, and that he’d like to try bottoming in the future, but wanted to hold off until they knew each other a bit better in bed, and how important it was that nothing that is even remotely possible to misconstrue as derogatory, spill over John’s lips when it happens. Not that the risk is very great. This far, it seems like John is the worshipping type of dirty talker. Not as verbal as Tom, and a bit more profane, but not shy about speaking during sex.

Falling asleep had been no problem. He fell asleep as the little spoon and woke up as the big one. 

Now though, now he’s coming unglued.

John reaches out and takes the hand rubbing back and forth on his thigh, lacing their fingers together. “Don’t worry, Tommy. It’ll turn out fine,” he soothes, taking his eyes off the road long enough to give Tom an encouraging smile.

“You don’t know that.”

“True. But you’ve got me. Whatever happens. We’re in it together, okay?”

“I’m so God damned scared to do this, John. You have no idea what it feels like.”

John purses his lips thoughtfully then pulls his lips down in a facial shrug. “I suppose I don’t. And there’s absolutely no way to predict how they will react. I came out to all of my friends―“

“ _All_ of them?” Tom says, head snapping around to stare at John as if he’d grown horns.

John sniggers. “Everyone I considered a friend or _wanted_ to consider a friend. I figured, I was hoping to pursue a relationship with you, but even if you told me to fuck off, there was nothing to say I wouldn’t meet another guy in the future. It was better to have the coming out part done and over with, so whoever I’m seeing doesn’t have to deal with my friends, should they not react well. Not all of them did. Lost some friends, upgraded some acquaintances to friend status. The first ones to know was my boss at work, and Miah, my secretary.” John throws Tom a quick look. “I work at an lgbt+ friendly company, even if not everybody working for us is minded that way. I asked for a transfer, not because of the divorce, but out of safety reasons. Living in Pine Glen wasn’t safe for me. I’m not a coward, but I chose my battles. I was not ready to tackle the coming out openly part just yet then. Miah saw the application so she got to know before the divorce was final, but nobody else here knew.”

“She took it well?”

“Totally. She even figured out that I was in love with you, because, I quote, ‘Heart Eyes is a thing you know?’. But she thinks you’re straight. I didn’t tell her you aren’t.”

“How did others react?”

John chuckles. “Everywhere from telling my disgusting fag ass to burn in Hell, to ‘Hah! I knew it!’. That last one was from my roommate in college, by the way, which was interesting. One guy, Malcolm, works at my office, had more problems with the fact that I’m into both men and women, that he has about me being into men. He got quite upset, but called me a week later to make amends. Unless they’ve acted like complete jerks about it, I give people time to think about it.” John snorts in amusement. “One woman, a colleague in Massachusetts, invited me for dinner to meet her _wife_.” He grins at Tom. “I had absolutely no idea. You just don’t know about people.”

It helps calming Tom’s nerves to talk and listen. He keeps asking for individual reactions, and John talks. Most of the people John considers/considered friends, are spread over the country. Colleagues, clients, old teammates and old college buddies. Only Miah and her husband live in Pine Glen. It’s not so strange that John sought a friendship with Tom. On his home turf he was as lonely as Tom.

When they turn onto Tom’s driveway, anxious nerves come back, full force. It’s 4 PM. Grace’s car isn’t at home, and neither should she be, but Noah might be home. It’s impossible to tell without going to the garage and check if Nelly’s there.

John parks the car outside and follows Tom inside. Thankfully he doesn’t insist on holding hands here. Paul might spot them if he’s at home, and nobody in Pine Glen needs to know _before_ his family. “Hello?” Tom calls out, stepping inside. Only silence answers. He turns to John. “Shit. Do I really have to do this?”

John grabs his shoulders, squeezing encouragingly, looking so God damned earnest. “It’s going to be _fine_ , Tommy. I’d let you tuck tail, pack your things and leave, but you don’t want to do it that way. I know you, okay? You need to tell them or you’ll die inside. I’m here for you, okay?”

Tom closes his eyes and takes a couple of steadying breaths. Most of all he just wants to crawl into a corner and cry. “John. I don’t know if I can do it. I’m so scared. What if―“

“Dad? You okay? What are you scared of?”

Noah’s voice startles the both of them. Tom spins around to spot Noah in the hallway to the garage entrance. He’s got a rag poking out of his pocket and oil smudges in his face, showing that he'd been tinkering with Nelly. His eyes are wide and alarmed, a mirror of Tom’s own.

Heart racing, a million answers run through Tom's mind.

_It’s between me and John._

_Nothing. Don’t worry, Champ._

_It’s personal. I'll tell you later._

“Son. We need to talk,” he says gravely, surprising himself…

* * *


	48. Ripping A Band Aid Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom comes out to Noah.

## May 24th, 2015

“If this is about me forging your signature―“ Noah starts apprehensively.

“It isn’t.” Tom turns his head and looks at John. “John, can you get us three beers from the fridge and then come join us in the garage?” John nods and goes towards the kitchen. Tom gestures in the direction of the garage. “Let’s go in there.” Somehow, it seems fitting. Talking in and around the car has become something of a safe space, for the both of them. Or rather, it’s a safe space to Noah, and a place to answer hard questions to Tom.

Noah is worried. He turns to Tom the moment they enter the garage. “What’s going on?” If he hasn’t already learned to dread the phrase ‘we need to talk’, this is where he learns, Tom thinks.

“Would you sit down? I’ve got something I need to tell you.” Tom jumps up on his usual perch of winter tires. He’s so nervous, his skin feels numb and his hands are cold.

“Dad, what is it?” Noah asks, sitting down on the floor, leaning his back against Nelly’s front tire.

“Let’s wait for John first,” Tom says. He needs that beer. If nothing else, just to have something to occupy his hands. Something to hold, to shield himself.

John enters the garage with three beers. He hands one to Tom, who immediately drinks three big swallows, and one to Noah, who takes a careful sip, then John goes to sit down on the floor, just by the door, so they’re sitting in a triangle formation. Noah, facing John with his body, but looking to the side, at Tom. John keeps his face passive but serious. His presence helps. If Tom doesn’t say it, he will. There’s no way out of this. Tom clings to that thought like a liferaft.

“You remember that I told you I tried to commit suicide a few days before my eighteenth birthday? I said that I’d tell you why when you got older,” Tom starts. 

“Uh-huh?” Noah answers uncertainly.

Tom takes a deep breath to steady himself. Then another. There’s no going back. If he doesn’t do this, John will, he repeats to himself. He feels like throwing up. Noah sits leaned against Nelly, staring at him with wide eyes and a nervous frown, lips parted, tense in his whole body. Tom’s own fear transferred by body language. His heart is beating so hard he fears he’s going to have a heart attack. “Son. I’m gay.”

He said it.

Jesus Christ, but he said it!

Noah’s lips twitch in a bemused, uncertain almost-smile. “Is... Is this a joke?” He darts a look at John and then looks back at Tom. “Dad, if this is a joke, it isn’t funny.”

Tom’s mouth is so dry he can barely talk. He shakes his head seriously. “No, son. I’m homosexual.”

The uncertain almost-smile slowly fades from Noah’s face. He frowns. Looks uncomprehending. Stares. Waiting for Tom to make sense and is met only by heavy silence. His breathing is getting quicker. He looks at John, eyes asking John to tell him it isn’t true. John nods gravely, confirming Tom's statement. Noah looks back at Tom, taking in the heavy, somber demeanor, the sadness and fear in his eyes. Noah’s head twitches in a little half shake of denial, his hand goes up cover his mouth. His eyes start glossing over. He squeezes them shut and bends his head in towards his knees, hiding his face, pulling his knees up further. His shoulders start shaking in silent sobs.

Lord. His poor son must be so disappointed in him. 

Every sob that tears from Noah, not silent anymore, cuts like knives in Tom. His own throat has a giant lump, eyes stinging, stomach’s in knots. 

Noah’s crying in earnest now, hugging his legs, rocking himself. Tom can’t stop tears from welling up in his own eyes. His son’s pain is so acute. He wants to go over there to comfort him. But Noah probably doesn’t want him anywhere near anymore.

Noah raises his head, face twisted in sorrow. “ _I’m so sorry!_ ” he chokes out before bending his head back to hide behind his knees, body racking in another series of sobs.

_Noah’s sorry???_

“Jesus Christ!” Tom’s down from his perch and by Noah’s side in the space between heartbeats. As soon as he’s within arm’s length, Noah reaches for him like he’s still a toddler, having fallen and scraped his knees. He clings to Tom, hiding his face by Tom’s chest, shaken by one breath-stealing sob after another, crying worse than Tom had cried yesterday. When he manages to get air for words he keeps repeating “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Dad, I’m so sorry.”

“Ssshh. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s not your fault. Ssshh. It’s okay,” Tom coos, rocking him, completely bewildered by Noah’s reaction. He can feel tears running down his own cheeks, but they’re more a response to Noah’s anguish than anything else. He looks over to John, trying to convey the question ‘Why is he doing this?’

John’s looking away from them, face twitching, swallowing repeatedly, trying to not cry too. It’s hard to see somebody so devastated without feeling it.

Tom holds Noah several minutes before the weeping starts to subside. “Noah, it’s okay. It’s not your fault. Why are you apologising?” Tom asks, stroking Noah over the hair.

It’s hard for Noah to talk, sobs still tearing out of him, making speech hiccupped. “Y-you had to… lis-listen to me, say all… those thi-things... A-ah-all th-the times you, to-told me… about queer kids. ...You t-talked..’b-bout yourself,” Noah racks against Tom’s chest. “In church… Nana and Gramps… e-e-everywhere. ...I’m so sorry!”

“Jesus Christ, Noah. Don’t take blame. I never held it against you.” He hugs Noah tighter, heart breaking. He’d never imagine Noah would feel _guilty_ of all things. He’d expected rejection, disgust, possibly reluctant acceptance, sceptical confusion. He had never thought Noah would react as if he’d stood by watching while Tom got stabbed. “I love you. You’re my son. Don’t cry.”

Maybe he should have considered the risk. Noah had been as devastated by the attack on Martin, and had spent a lot of time thinking about the dangers and fears any queer person had to suffer through, living here. He’d beaten himself up, taking on guilt for not stopping the attack on Martin before it happened. An attack that was unthinkable to him.

John gets up and disappears from view, while Tom strokes the tears from Noah’s face, trying to calm him down without breaking down bawling too. John comes back, puts a toilet roll by Tom’s side, as well as his beer (that Tom wasn’t even aware he’d put down when he rushed to Noah’s side), cigarettes and an ashtray, then he goes to sit down by the opposite wall again.

“Puh-poor you. Poor mom. Oh, fuck.” Noah hides his face, hit by another sob, then twists his head to look up at Tom. He’s a mess. Eyes, nose, and cheeks red, snot running, appearing completely destroyed. Tom struggles not to crumble at the sight of his poor baby boy, this sad. “Why didn’t you _say_ something? Why didn’t you tell me I was wrong? That what they taught wasn’t true?” Noah asks.

Tom opens his mouth to answer. “I... I...“ he can’t find the words. Hearing the truth would just pain Noah even more. His stupid lips start to wobble, the lump in his throat growing until nothing can pass it no matter how much he swallows. He closes his eyes, trying to prevent his stinging eyes from starting to leak.

“Because your dad believed them,” John breaks in. “He believed everything said about homosexuals. He thought that no matter how good he was, he’d be going to Hell.”

“Oh _no_ ,” Noah whines, pulls himself up hug Tom almost protectively and it’s such a God damned kicker, Tom loses his battle not to cry. His stupid, wonderful little boy crying along, telling him “It’s not true. God loves you. You’re a good person. A good dad. I love you.There’s nothing wrong with you. I love you. You won’t go to Hell. I won’t let you.”

It’s such a mess, all of it. 

When they calm down again John touches each of their shoulders, getting their attention. He’s kneeling in front of them, holding out paper to both of them to blow their noses and dry their eyes. He’s smiling widely at them, his own eyes glossy and tear tracks on his cheeks. “Christ, you two. You’re breaking my heart.”

Tom chuckles with a mix of self-consciousness and relief. “Serves you right,” he mutters and takes the proffered tissue. Noah does the same, looking a bit embarrassed as well as grateful. Their blow their noses and dab their eyes, take the toilet roll to clean up some more. John takes a piece of paper for himself, blows his nose and goes back to sit on his place by the wall.

“Does mom know?” Noah asks when he’s pieced himself together somewhat. He sits closely pressed to Tom’s side, leaned against Nelly again.

“Not yet. I’m going to tell her. Soon. But I don’t think I can tell her today. This is the most frightening thing I’ve ever done in my life.” Tom reaches out to grab his beer, spots the cigarettes, takes out a cig and the lighter, and offers the pack to Noah. He’s a bit shaky. Has the light, empty feel you get after crying. Noah takes out a cig and Tom lights it for him before lighting his own. Tom drinks from his beer, washing down the sticky post-cry saliva, and takes another hit on the cigarette. “I’ve been hiding what I am all my life, son. Not a day has gone by without me feeling guilt about who, _what_ , I am. I’ve really tried to become straight. If I could fall in love with a woman, your mom would be it. She was my best friend, she’s beautiful, and I loved her dearly. Just not…”

“Like that,” Noah finishes for him, blowing out smoke and looking forlorn.

Tom nods and picks on the label of his beer bottle.

“Why did you marry her?”

“I proposed to her a week after my failed suicide attempt. I was trying to make amends, be a good son. I hoped that maybe I could be cured.”

“It’s not a disease, Tom,” John says.

Tom shrugs. “At the time, I thought so.” Sometimes he still thinks so. But lately he’s becoming more and more convinced that the things Noah’s says are true. That God doesn't care.

“Why didn’t you divorce mom when you realised you couldn’t become straight?” Noah asks.

“Because we’ve been taught that if you get divorced, both would go to Hell. I didn’t want her to be punished for what I am. Didn’t want to be the one to doom someone as good as Grace, to Hell.”

“That’s such utter bullshit,” Noah says. “I’ve always thought so. About divorces, I mean, not your reasoning. It just never made sense to me that God would want people to stick together and fight, hurting each other. I wanted you and mom to stop fighting and love each other again. I wanted that for a long time, but you’ve been so unhappy, I stopped thinking you could. I guess, now I know why.” He shakes his head, takes a swig of his beer, inhales from his cigarette and blows the smoke out downward. “I get why you hate your parents now.”

“I don’t― “ _Yes. Yes I do._ “It’s not just that. I can remember jumping from the window of my room when I was five, because I felt they didn’t want me and I wasn’t good enough. Discovering I was gay was just the last straw.” 

Noah bends his head, deep in thought, mulling things over. He raises his head and looks between Tom and John, studying them while taking a new hit on his cig, then tapping the ashes off on the floor of the garage. “Why were you fighting?” he asks, having that sharp look in his eyes that means his brain is working overtime.

Tom and John share a look.

“We weren’t fighting as such,” John answers. “I saw your dad kiss a man―“

“You cheated on John _too_?” Noah asks, raising his eyebrows in surprise, turning his head to stare at Tom.

“We weren’t dating,” Tom defends himself, startled.

Noah narrows his eyes and scrunches his face up skeptically. “You’re _not_ dating?”

Tom shares a nervous look with John, who, unlike him, seems to find it all amusing. 

“Since yesterday, we are,” John admits with a little smile, before Tom has the chance to decide to be honest about it or not. “But why did you presume we were?”

“Um. Dad and I had a talk recently about honesty. I asked him to tell me, if he got a new girlfriend or whatever. Then you come back, and dad tells me he’s gay.” Noah directs himself to John, but darts glances at Tom, as to include him. “Seems like the logical conclusion that you’d been dating. Especially since dad’s not wearing his wedding ring now, and you tell me you fought because you saw dad kiss someone.”

Tom covers his ringless hand self consciously. It hadn’t crossed his mind Noah would notice it in this situation.

John on the other hand, lets out a pained chuckle. “So close, yet missing the goal completely. I was as homophobic as everyone else in this town. Then I saw my best friend kiss a man, and had to come to terms with that the feelings that evoked, may not have been as platonical as they should have been. I’m in love with your dad, Noah. But I didn’t know it until then.”

Tom looks at John warmly, for a moment forgetting the cigarette in his hand, heart fluttering at hearing the confession. It was understood, in everything else John had said and done since yesterday, but sometimes hearing the words spelled out, is a great relief. Up until now, John had paired the words ‘in love’ with ‘was’, as in past tense. 

“So you’re boyfriends,” Noah says, wanting to have it 100% clarified.

“Yes,” Tom says, at the same time as John says “Yes. Is that something you think you can come to accept?”

“What? Oh. No, yeah. I’m cool with it. That’s not… It’s just. It’s fucked up. All of it. Not. Not you being gay,” he says, turning his head to look Tom in the eyes. “But the situation. Things being like they are. How our religion can cause a clusterfuck like this. God is love, right? And, um.” He pauses to take a drag off his cig, reminding Tom he’s still holding his. Tom taps ashes off his cig in the ashtray and takes a deep inhale of smoke. Noah blows smoke out downward. “I’m grateful, you know? In part. If you hadn’t married mom, I wouldn’t exist. I’m grateful for that part. But. Um. Do you have to tell mom? Can’t you just, get divorced? This will hurt her.”

Tom is completely in on that plan. John? Not so much. “No,” John says decisively. “Grace is a friend of mine too. She deserves to know why her marriage isn’t working out. Both your parents are depressed, Noah, and it’s the lies that’s the root of that. Think about it. If Tom left Grace without a good explanation as to why, she may get stuck on asking herself where she went wrong, why she couldn’t keep her marriage together. They need this, to be able to heal properly, and move on with their lives. It’s better to just rip off the bandaid on this one. Besides, what if, after the divorce, she spots me and Tom kissing or holding hands? Aside from feeling utterly betrayed, she might think that _she_ somehow turned Tom gay. And that wouldn’t be good for her self confidence and self esteem.”

Noah nods sadly. “No, yeah. You’re right. You’re right. I just. I’m sorry,” he says and shuffles closer to Tom’s side, curling into a forlorn ball.

Tom puts his arm around him and gives him a kiss on the top of his head. “I’m sorry too, Champ.”

“This is why you said I’d slam the door in your face someday, and you’d forgive me for it, isn’t it?” Noah asks reaching out to squish his cigarette in the ashtray..

“Yes.”

“Yeah, no. That won’t happen.”

Tom takes one last drag on his cig before he puts it out in the ashtray too. “Doesn’t it make you uncomfortable at all?”

“A year ago, perhaps. But since December it’s like my whole world’s been draped in a rainbow flag. Justin, Neda, you. Then there’s Caroline who’s ace, and a boy at school that only dares being a boy when we’re in private. When I used the right pronouns for him for the first time, he looked like he was going to cry. I get to hear so many things, dad, you have no idea.” He sighs tiredly.

“A boy. You mean, transgender?” John asks curiously.

Noah sits up straight again and grabs his beer. “Yeah. I’m the only one who knows except for his parents. His dad refuses to call him anything but daddy’s little girl, but his mom is cool about it.”

“Does it make you uncomfortable that we are together?” Tom asks, more interested in knowing Noah’s feelings on what happens closer to home. Noah answered that already, Tom’s just having trouble believing it.

Noah looks at them, halting his movement of bringing the bottle to his mouth. He considers for a beat, then shakes his head. “Nope. I don’t wanna walk in on you, doing the do. But aside from that, I have no problem with it,” he answers and takes a swig of beer. “Who was your first crush?” he asks Tom as soon as the bottle leaves his mouth.

That’s how both Tom and John finds themselves swept up in one of Noah’s games of 20 questions, relating to their sexuality. John tells them about his forays on the internet, googling ‘Am I gay?’ and other questions like that. His retelling is hilarious and has them in stitches. Tom’s so relieved it feels like he’s floating. It gets emotional at times, when he answers some of Noah’s questions about his life. It’s made worse since Noah’s so emphatic when it comes to living himself into Tom’s misery, and more tears are inevitable, even if none of them have the same total breakdown as before.

* * *

When they finally emerge from the garage they find Neda in the living room, casually leaned against the back of the couch, arms crossed over his chest and one leg slung over the other. “I’ve said that these vessels are leaky, but you two take the price,” he says dryly to Tom and Noah, sardonic smirk playing on his lips.

“ _Don’t_ tell anyone what you overheard,” Noah tells him urgently.

Neda pulls an apple out of the pouch of his hoodie and holds it up to inspect it disinterestedly. “Don’t fret. I’m here for the entertainment, not to be a talebearer,” he says, then takes a big bite of the apple, chewing it like a hamster, cheek bulging.

Tom reflects that few things can convey arrogance as well as eating an apple. He puts a hand between John’s shoulder blades and holds his arm out, gesturing towards Neda. “John, this is Neda. She’s the friend I told you about.”

“She? I―“ John gives Tom a confused look.

Neda doesn’t wait for the confusion to be cleared up. He pushes himself away from the couch and strides up to John, holding out his hand not holding the apple. “Neda Bath Kol. Pleased. To meet you.”

“John Powell. Bath Kol? Like, ‘the voice of God’?”

Neda’s expression turns smug and satisfied. “ _Exactly_ the voice of God. You’ve done your homework.” He looks at Tom. “I like this one. You can keep him,” he declares, lets go of John’s hand, turns on his heel and wanders off towards the kitchen, eating his apple.

Noah turns to John, holding up his hands. “Neda’s a bit strange, but he’s a good guy. I promise. You’ll get used to it,” he assures him before turning to hurry after Neda.

“He has his own key? I thought I locked the door,” John asks Tom.

Tom shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“How did he overhear? It shouldn’t be possible unless he had his ear against the door.”

“Maybe he did. Don’t worry about him.”

“How do you feel?” John asks and takes one of Tom’s hands, lacing their fingers together.

“Shaken. Emptied. Relieved. Like I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I didn’t expect Noah to feel for me like that. It was intense.”

John smiles “Enough crying for now, okay?” He gives Tom a peck on the lips, then sniggers. “Your son really _is_ a chip off the old block. Cry babies, the both of you,” he teases, looking far too fond for Tom to take offense.

Tom snorts in amusement. “Hey. I’m in touch with my emotions.”

John chortles, eyes twinkling. “You’re as in touch with your emotions as a colicky baby,” he retorts.

“I’ve heard that women want sensitive guys,” Tom counters and wiggles his eyebrows with a shiteating grin. He thrills in self-satisfaction when John laughs at the joke.

“So do guys, apparently,” John quips.

“What do we do now? You’ll stay?” Tom asks, a bit more serious now.

“I don’t― . I figured I'd get a hotel room downtown. You can stay with me if you want? I’m not sure if it’s a good idea for me to stay here.” John looks down and fingers Tom’s shirt with the hand not holding Tom’s. “I’d planned on courting you, once you were out and hopefully divorced, if it seemed like there was still a chance you’d be interested.” He looks up, head still tilted down, smiling apologetically. “Grace is a friend and I feel a bad about double crossing her. I wouldn’t step between if the situation was different, but since you’re…” He does a little half-shrug. “She might think we’ve done stuff here, in her home, even if I just stay overnight in a guestroom.”

“She’ll think that either way, John. Put yourself in her place. What would you think?”

John grimaces. “Alright. I get your point.”

Tom leans their foreheads together. “You want to put this on pause until everything’s finished?”

John chuckles humorlessly. “No, Tommy. But let’s keep―“

“Dinner won’t make itself you know!” Neda calls from the kitchen, making them look in that direction, but the doorway is empty. Then after a beat he adds “Or, it _can_. But it won’t.”

“ _Neda_! Shut up. We can make our own damn dinner,” Noah chastises annoyedly from inside the kitchen.

Tom chuckles and John frowns. “Neda is a bit of an ass,” John says quietly.

“I heard that!” Neda calls, not sounding displeased about it.

Tom grins. “Gotta love him.”

John gives him an unconvinced look.

“Come on, let’s get dinner started before Noah bullies Neda into making it,” Tom says, stroking a lock of hair out of John’s face. It’s such a marvel that he can do that.

“Sounds like he’d deserve it.”

“No. You don’t know her. We’d end up being served fried grasshoppers with cotton candy.”

Neda sticks his head out of the kitchen to smirk at Tom, tapping his temple. “I like the way you think,” he says and winks.

Tom chuckles quietly and looks back at John. “You’ll stay for dinner at least?”

“Of course. Go change your shirt. I’ll get started.”

“Hop, hop. You haven’t got much time,” Neda urges impatiently. Tom gives John a quick kiss, lets go of John’s hand, then turns to go change the shirt Noah had snivelled all over. He takes two steps before he hears the front door open. His pulse flutters nervously. If they’d stood that close, holding hands, looking lovey dovey a moment longer― “I told you so,” Neda says, somewhere behind his back.

* * *

It’s almost scary to realise how good people are at lying. 

It’s made apparent by how well Noah and John keeps a straight face around Grace. He too, by all means. 

Grace was overjoyed to find John here. All three of them had helped making dinner while Noah took a shower and Neda sat by the kitchen table watching them with an amused smirk.

At first they had talked about Grace and what she was doing these days, but now, at the dinner table, Grace turns her attention to John. “Cathy told me you two were moving to Wisconsin because of your work. Do you like it there?”

John snorts. “It that what she’s been saying?” His lips twist sourly. “We have _not_. We’re divorced. She’s moved in with her new boyfriend.” He holds up his right hand to show his ringless finger, then takes a sip of wine.

“Divorced?” Grace asks, shocked. 

“Hold onto your hat, mom. This is an ugly story,” Noah warns and stuffs food in his mouth.

“Cathy and me, we’ve hated each other with a passion for a long time. I’ve asked her for a divorce before, and she’s refused. But I found out she was having an affair…” John goes on to describe everything that’s taken place during the last year. He makes a point of putting a spotlight on his own pettiness, like reporting the car stolen even though he didn’t really care if she kept the car or not. Grace completely forgets about her half eaten meal, sipping her wine with wide eyes.

“But aren’t you afraid you’ll go to Hell?”

“Mom. I’ve told you. God doesn’t send people to Hell for getting divorced,” Noah says with an eyeroll. 

John shakes his head. “If we had waited until death did us part, one of us were going to get sentenced to lifetime without parole.”

“Oh my God.” Grace covers her mouth with her hand. “I had no idea it was that bad. I knew you’ve said that you and Cathy were having problems, but I presumed you moved to find your way back to each other. Where do you live now?”

“I bought a boat. I live on it when the company doesn’t put me up in hotels.”

“Have you met somebody new too?”

Neda, who up until now had been quiet, following everything said like he was watching a very entertaining tennis match, suddenly sniggers, drawing their attention. Noah kicks him on the shin. “I apologise. I just remembered something funny that happened in school today,” he says. Then sniggers again when John, Tom and Noah all give him different levels of nervous/angry looks.

“Oh yeah? What happened?” John deflects.

“It’s a private joke type of thing. You wouldn’t understand. Anyway, you were telling us about your new love?” Neda counters pleasantly, with an interested and friendly smile directed John’s way.

Noah kicks Neda under the table again, while Neda (unflinching) has his gaze locked on John, sending Tom’s pulse racing nervously. John smiles politely towards Neda, then turns his attention back to Grace. “There is someone, but it’s all very new, and I don’t want to jinx it by talking about them just yet.”

“Oh. I guess I can understand that,” Grace says. Without thought, she reaches out to take Tom’s hand beside her on the table. She doesn’t look away from John, hardly aware of doing it. But the rest of them look at the clasped hands. John’s eyes just flick to them, barely acknowledging it. Noah’s face remains expressionless, but he drains his wine and reaches for the bottle to refill. Neda looks downright gleeful. Like she said. She’s here for the _entertainment_.

Dinner continues that way, with an undercurrent of tension (and Neda sniggering any time it bubbles to the surface). Grace picks up on it, and asks what’s wrong. Noah answers that he had a talk with Tom about something sensitive, that concerns somebody else, and that he wasn’t supposed to tell anyone, but needed to talk. Grace appears to buy the excuse since she’s used to the confidentiality.

After dinner Tom excuses himself and leaves the kitchen. Noah and Neda goes to Noah’s room and Tom hides in the den but with the upstairs door open. He can hear laughter from the kitchen.

It hurts.

It hurts, knowing that his love for John (and John’s for him) will bereave Grace of a friend. That it perpetuates further betrayals by making both John and Noah lie to someone they care for. He isn’t as bothered by Neda’s mocking glee as one might think. He thinks Neda’s more amused by the anxiety, guilt, and anguish of the liars at the table, than by the hidden ignominy towards Grace.

_Quite right, child._

_You’re still an asshole, acting like you did._

_Pfft. You’re doing it to yourself. All of you. I will never cease to be amazed how much pain you can inflict on yourself by acting against your nature, only using the power of your mind. This conscience thing you’ve got going on, is quite. Extraordinary._

Tom’s not sure if the female voice of Neda in his head is a testament that he’s actually gone mad, or if there’s something more to it. He likes the voice though. He likes the idea of having someone who knows exactly what he’s thinking and doing at all times. Somebody who knows the truth behind every lie. It’s the same comfort as knowing God sees everything, knows every thought. It’s as frightening as it’s liberating. To be seen.

He gets a burst of affection that feels directed towards him, rather than being his own. Imaginary or real, he’s soothed by having the voice talking to him.

_How’s Noah doing?_

_He’s praying. Leaving the writing of the next sermon to me. I wonder if you can appreciate the irony of that._

Tom lies down on the couch, staring at the ceiling. He feels completely emotionally drained.

He’s come out to Noah.

_Dear Lord! I did it!_

His heart twists in pain for Noah’s sake. He’s still baffled that Noah’s reaction had been putting himself in Tom’s place straight away, taking on the pain and guilt for Tom’s suffering. He’d never expected that, nor the instant acceptance. John might think that their sexuality isn’t for their families to forgive, and maybe that is so, but _because_ of his sexuality, Tom has caused his family a lot of suffering and pain that they had no reason to forgive. But Noah had, and it almost makes him feel like crying again.

John and he should probably talk through how they’re going to tell people they’re dating. Tom could have taken a step back and keep it on a friend-level, until he’s done coming out to his family. John had (thankfully) said no to that. What he _really_ wants to do is cling to John like a burr.

He should probably contact a divorce lawyer to draw up a suggestion as soon as possible. And check with Noah if he still wants to live with him if they separate. And talk through with John where he wants them to live. Tom takes for granted that John doesn’t want to move in together straight away, but they should at least find someplace to live in somewhat close vicinity of each other. If Noah’s coming with, he’ll have to have a say in the matter too. Most importantly, they need to get out of Pine Glen.

Thinking ahead like this had been a cumbersome burden two days ago. Now, _not_ thinking ahead is the panic inducing option. Grace is about to find out. He has to plan his escape. She won’t want him in the house afterwards. 

Trying to make plans, and think of everything that will need to be fixed, is draining. His mind keeps wandering back to Noah hugging him, saying ‘ _God loves you. You’re a good person. A good dad. I love you.There’s nothing wrong with you. I love you. You won’t go to Hell. I won’t let you._ ’ It spears Tom’s heart every time, making his throat constrict and his heart swell. If he thought he couldn’t love his son any more than he already did, he was _wrong_.

He worries he’ll end up in a divorce-war with Grace, just like John. He doesn’t think Grace would do anything like that. If she puts up a fuss, he’ll give her everything. As long as she lets him go. John promised to be there for him. He’ll put himself in God and John’s hands if that happens. All in all, his longanimity is fairly decent.

John comes downstairs. Tom gets up from the couch. “You staying the night?” he asks hopefully.

John shakes his head, meeting him in the middle of the floor. He grabs Tom by the belt and tugs him close, winding his arms around his midriff. “No. You sure you don’t want to stay at the hotel with me?”

“I do. But I don’t want to leave Noah. What if he has more questions? Or… I don’t know. I just want to be close to him this soon after…”

“I suspected as much.”

“Where is Grace?” Tom asks when John kisses his neck. The door upstairs is still open.

“She’s taking a shower before going to bed.”

Tom relaxes. “I have a present for you. Wait,” he says and frees himself. He walks over to the bed and reaches for the netted glass floats hanging on the hook above it. “I bought it for you. I thought you were never coming back, but I went by an antique store and I couldn’t stop myself. I missed you too much.”

John grins, looking touched, when Tom comes back, handing the gift over. “Bro. It’s just like the one Cathy destroyed. I love these. Thanks, babe.”

Tom makes a little bemused snort giggle. “I don’t feel like a ‘babe’.” More like a wreck. The human equivalent of a car crash.

“Shut up. You are to me,” John counters, tugging him back in for a kiss, hugging him close. Tom’s back to being filled by fizzy bubbles and butterflies. No. Acting as just friends isn’t an option. He doesn’t want to. John may not want to stay the night out of respect of Grace, but it’s clear that he doesn’t want to leave Tom. 

“Do you have to work tomorrow?” Tom asks between kisses.

“No. Not for three weeks,” John asks before deepening the kiss, pressing Tom closer. Heart rate quickens, breaths get heavier, heat start spreading. Tom’s hands, free from holding anything, find their way inside John’s shirt, exploring the hot skin underneath.

“Keep it PG, you two,” Noah grumps from the top of the stairs.

The spring apart in startlement, looking up at Noah and Neda standing upstairs. Noah a few steps down. It could have been Grace. This would not have been a good way for her to find out. Tom shares a look with John that tells him John had the same thought.

“Technically, since he’s your father, anything he does will be PG,” Neda points out innocently.

Noah glares at him and John lets out an embarrassed chuckle. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to get carried away. Your dad gave me a gift. I just wanted to say thanks.”

“Keep thanking him like that he’ll give you the D too,” Neda remarks.

“ _Neda_ ,” Noah scolds, giving him another glare.

Neda shrugs, unbothered. “Don’t blame me. That’s where they were heading, with a 91% probability rate.”

Noah rolls his eyes and walks downstairs. “Mom’s in the shower. She said you weren’t staying over, so I wanted to say goodbye.”

“Right. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Good. It’s nice to have you back, John. We’ve missed you.” Noah hugs John and there’s something about that, that has Tom swallowing around another lump. Noah’s _really_ , actually, completely accepted the two of them. It’s too huge to grasp that Noah could take it in such stride.

When John leaves he takes Neda with him, giving her a lift to whatever location she’ll claim to need to go to. Tom has John’s new phone number and an order to call anytime if he needs anything. Noah comes back down in the den when John and Neda are gone. He doesn’t say much. He just wants to watch a movie and sit close. Both of them are lost in their own thoughts for most of the movie. It’s comforting though.

When Tom goes to bed he shoots off a cheesy goodnight message to John, getting an even cheesier message back. He’s oddly free of anxiety, despite what’s still looming up ahead. He falls asleep surprisingly fast.

* * *


	49. Lingerie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom ponders around Grace's lingerie. Angels are watching over him.

## May 25th, 2015

It’s 8 AM and everybody has left home. Tom is putting away clean laundry in Grace’s bedroom. He puts her underwear away in the lingerie drawer. He finds himself halting his movement, holding a pair of soft, silky panties in dark forest green, with black lace details and a little cluster of small crystals in a little bow by the hem. He strokes the panties with his thumb. They’re beautiful. Grace has a lot of beautiful lingerie of all types. Luxurious brands, often imported from Europe. Barely anything that looks cheap or slutty. He’d like to fool himself and say it’s because she likes to look good under her clothes too. And maybe it’s true, in part. But he knows that a great part of the content of this drawer are ways she’s tried to get his attention.

Back in the day, he’d tried to show his appreciation when she put on new lingerie. He could appreciate it. If she’d model the content of this drawer for him (and some that were hanging in the wardrobe), even today, he would enjoy the sight. A beautiful woman with a beautiful body, showing off classy, gorgeous underwear. Yes, he’d enjoy the sight. He just wouldn’t find it arousing.

He puts down the panties and takes up a bra. It’s white, decorated with pale pink crystals and soft lace. He’s fooling himself if he thinks all this wasn’t a try to seduce him. It’s so sad. She never stood a chance. He may have lived his real life in the shadows, but he’s had his love reciprocated and great sex throughout. He’s gotten to experiment, find out his likes and dislikes. She never has, but never for lack of trying. Thinking of it, she’s bent herself over backwards trying to make him want her. And what has she gotten?

He puts down the bra and rummages in the back of the drawer until he finds the box with antidepressants.

This.

Suddenly Grace comes into the room. “Oh, hi. You’re here. I forgot my purse and―“ She stops with an indrawn breath when she sees what he’s holding, her eyes going wide. “I can explain. I’m not insane, I swear. It’s―“

“I did this to you,” he cuts her off, holding up the box, still looking down into the drawer. He’d been so lost in his musings that he hadn’t heard the door, or her steps in the stairs.

She swallows audibly. “It’s not…”

He can imagine what she’s feeling now. She didn’t know he already knew. The stigma of mental illness is pinning her to the spot. She’s ashamed. She shouldn’t be. It’s not her fault. “Do you see a therapist regularly too?” he asks, his voice is flat, devoid of feelings.

She’s quiet for a moment. Probably deliberating. She’s not a lying woman. Honesty wins out. “Once a week. But Tom, I really need to talk to someone. I’m not trying to smear our reputation. She located in Windy City and she’d never break patient confidentiality,” Grace hastens to assure him.

He feels empty, numb, and calm on the inside. Filled with a still sadness. He looks up and meets her apprehensive gaze. “Your therapist. Is she any good? Does it help?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Good.” He looks down on the box, flipping it over in his hands. “I wanted to keep something secret to you. I didn’t want to hurt you. But John said that it’d hurt you more in the long run if I didn’t tell you. He’s right. I did this to you, and I need to tell you why.”

“You’ve met somebody new,” Grace states.

He raises and lowers his eyebrows quickly, in a ‘well yes, but’ gesture. “That’s not why we don’t work out, Grace.” He meets her gaze and gestures towards the bed. “Would you sit down a minute.”

Grace takes a couple of uncertain steps towards the bed and lowers herself down to sit on it, without taking her guarded eyes off of him.

“I…” Tom begins. He turns around to put the box back in the drawer, close the drawer, then turns to lean his back against the drawer, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks down on the floor, not at Grace. “I’m about to demand a divorce. I love you, but that love is running out. You must feel it, with every fight we have. I don’t want to end up like John and Cathy.”

“If you still love me, we can fix it. We can repair―“

“No.” He looks up to meet her gaze. “I never should have married you. We never stood a chance. I can’t regret it, since without making that mistake, Jessi and Noah wouldn’t exist, and I can’t bring myself to regret that. You’re a beautiful, funny, warm hearted, smart and extraordinary woman, Grace. But it’s impossible for me to love you like I’m supposed to, because…” he draws a deep breath and lets it out before he goes on. “Grace, I’m homosexual. No matter how hard I’ve tried not to be, I can’t change. I’m married to, in my eyes, the most beautiful woman in Pine Glen, yet I’ve never been able to want you in any other way than as a friend. What I feel for you, is what I imagine siblings feel for each other.”

Grace stares at him, gaze jarred and uncomprehending.

Since she doesn’t speak, he fills the silence when it starts to stretch. “I’m always burdened with guilt about having married you under false premises, stealing your life from you, by doing so. You were my best friend, and I betrayed you by not daring to tell you the truth, that I was gay. In my defense, I was young, and still trought I could be cured. If there ever was a woman who I’d be able to fall in love with, it would be you. Needless to say, it didn’t happen.”

Grace’s mouth is hanging slack and open. Her eyes hold shock and disbelief. Her hand is slowly raised to cover her mouth. She doesn’t speak.

“I’ve cheated on you many times, Grace. But never, ever, with a woman. My problem getting it up with you, has nothing to do with _you_. You’re gorgeous and sexy. Even I can see that. The problem is that you’re not a man.”

Grace shakes her head slowly in denial, but still doesn’t say anything.

“Up until recently, I thought I was doomed to Hell no matter what I did. I thought a divorce would doom you to the same fate. That I would make you take an eternal punishment you don’t deserve, if I left you. I don’t believe it anymore. In fact, leaving you is the kindest thing I can do. It gives you the chance to find true love, that is reciprocated in every way, not just platonically. I want you to be happy. I want all the best for you. It hurts, not being able to give it to you. Leaving you, is the best way for me to give you a chance at true happiness, like I want you to have.”

Still, he’s met with only silence.

“In an ideal world, if I could have my wish, we’d remain friends. I would never have to lie to you again, and you’d still want me as your friend. Not for our children’s sake, but for us. I don’t believe you’ll feel that way. I expect you to hate me, feel repulsed by me, scorn and loathe me. I’d understand that, and forgive you for it. After all, those are the feelings I’ve harboured about myself, since I hit puberty, and understood what I am. Whatever you need, to get over me, and work through this, I’ll do my best to provide. If you want me to, I’ll go with you to the therapist. Talk it through. Answer any questions.”

Another little wide eyed head shake, but only silence.

Tom thinks about what John said. Of what Grace may think. “These things I want you to know, Grace. It’s not your fault. You didn’t somehow turn me gay. I was born this way. There’s nothing wrong with you. Nothing you could have done would have changed a thing. I love you. I always have. But not like that. You’re gorgeous, Grace. If my behaviour made you think otherwise, I’m sorry.”

“There’s… there’s nothing wrong with me?” Grace asks weakly, eyes glossing over with unshed tears.

Tom shakes his head, looking at her with sad eyes. “No. Nothing. I’m sorry for making you feel like there was.”

Grace doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring at him with her mouth covered, a tear escaping down her cheek.

“I… I’m going to go and have divorce papers drawn up. I want you to look them over and tell me if there are changes you want made. I will be insisting that you agree to the divorce, but I’m open for negotiation of how to divide our assets.” He takes a deep breath and looks down on the floor. “Since you’re going to find out sooner or later, I might as well tell you straight away. I’m in love with John. I intend to start a relationship with him.”

“Bu-but. He’s straight.”

“So he thought. Until he fell in love with me. He’s a bit torn up about it, since he considers you a close friend, and doesn’t want to hurt you anymore than I do. He said that he wouldn’t have acted upon it, if there had been any chance for us to repair our marriage. But unlike him, I’m 100% homosexual. We can’t fix this, Grace.”

Silence.

Tom wishes she would talk. That she would share her thoughts on the matter. “I understand that these are hard truths to face. I wish things were different. I’ve always wished things were different. But I’m done dreaming about being the man you deserve. Done with hating myself. I need to stop pretending I’m something I’m not. The congregation is toxic, Grace. I’ve lived in fear my whole life. I’m not the only one. Many people around here fall under the queer umbrella. They all share the same fears as me. Not only fear of being killed and harassed, or having their families bullied and ostracised… but fear of losing the love and respect from loved ones. If you’d look around, you’d find people close to you, who need you, and love you dearly, that carries these kind of secrets in their hearts. I will understand if you can never forgive the wrongs I’ve done you, by trying to adapt to the teachings we’ve grown up with, and by lying to you about this. But I ask of you, to try to understand, and accept, if anyone else comes out to you in the future. I know you’ve got a generous heart. I hope it’s big enough for you not to judge people by whom they love…” he says, thinking of the vulnerability Juss had shown, calling Grace ‘mom’ for the first time. He hopes that Juss doesn’t have to face rejection from a second mom, when time comes for him to come out to her, if he ever does.

He doesn’t know where this calm comes from. Inside there’s only sad stillness. “I’m going to go now, to have the divorce papers drawn up. Call or text me if you need anything or have questions. I’ll answer anything with the honesty I’ve denied you all my life. I’m sorry, Grace. I truly am.” He looks at her a while longer, waiting for her to say something. Anything.

But Grace just stares into nothing. Gaze directed inward. Stunned.

Tom digs up his wedding ring from his pocked, places it carefully on the top of the drawer, then leaves the room. He takes his phone and shoots off a text to Noah, telling him that he’s just come out to Grace, told her they’re divorcing, whatever she might feel about it, and warns Noah Grace might need to be comforted. He puts on shoes and a windbreaker, then leaves the house. Paul is outside tending to his roses, so Tom gives him a friendly wave before getting into his car to drive to the hotel John’s staying at. It’s overcast, and when he’s driven for a minute a light rain starts to fall. Inside of him, there’s only stillness.

He’s halfway to John when realisation of what he’s done dawns. It hits out of nowhere, sending his heart into an erratic beat. He starts to sweat and feel confused and disoriented. He’s hit with a wave of nausea, skin getting cold and clammy despite suddenly sweating buckets.

_Stop the car!_

He obeys the command of the angel in his head, driving onto the nearest parking lot. He gets out of the car, takes a few staggering steps. The ground seems to sway and wobble underneath his feet. He has no idea where he is. He shrugs out of his windbreaker and pulls his sweatshirt over his head to cool down. Drops them carelessly somewhere behind him. Takes another staggering step and goes down on his knees, catching himself with his hands when he starts tipping forward. He hurts his left hand somehow, but hardly notices because his head is spinning and his nausea is mounting. He heaves, but nothing comes up. He feels exhausted. It’s hard to breathe or think. It feels like he’s got a ton of pressure over his chest and back.

He’s getting scared. Something feels off, not like an ordinary panic attack. He scrambles for the phone in his pocket. Manages to hit John’s speed dial. Closes his eyes, hangs his head, pants.

“Wsmtph?” John answers eloquently, voice scratchy from sleep.

“Help. I need… help.” There’s someone else he could have called. He just can’t remember right now.

“Tommy? Are you alright? What’s happened?” John’s voice is suddenly clear and alarmed.

Tom would like to answer. He would. He just has to hang his head and rest for a while.

“TOM! What’s happening? Where are you??” 

“Dunno,” Tom answers, mouth dry like glue. He raises his head and peers around himself. Everything is fuzzy. He can vaguely make out a familiar sign in the distance. “Kmart.”

“I’m on my way. Don’t hang up. Talk to me, Tommy. What’s hap―“

He comes to from a stinging feeling in his cheek. “Come on, baby. Wake up. Jesus Christ, Tommy, _wake up_!” He gets another stinging slap.

He’s cold and wet, completely drained, and a bit dizzy. He opens his eyes to find he’s placed in left lateral recumbent position, John’s holding his shoulder, sitting leaned over him with a scared expression on his face, chewing gum. Hair and clothes rainmatted. “John?”

“Oh, thank God,” John exclaims, relief washing over him. “The ambulance is on its way.”

“Where am I? What happened?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me.”

Tom closes his eyes again. “I don’t…” He really can’t remember how he ended up on the ground of a parking lot, in the middle of a rain. But another memory trickles back. “I told.” His speech is a bit slurred. He’s so exhausted.

“You told who what? But what happened? Why are you here? Tommy? Can you hea―“

* * *

A few hours later he’s sitting on an examination table, dangling with his legs, wanting to go home. Doctor Irons isn’t so keen on letting him go.

“...keep you here overnight for observation.”

“No. You just told me all tests were fine and everything seems normal. I’m perfectly capable of leaving the hospital by myself, so I will. It would be better for everybody if you let me go. I won’t be alone. Powell brought me in, he’ll be with me if something should happen.”

Doctor Irons sighs. It’s not the first time he’s been up against Tom’s stubbornness. “Thomas, it’s cautionary. The ambulance driver swears your heart was the problem. But we can’t find anything to suggest it was. That doesn’t mean it isn’t.”

That might have something to do with the Paramedic in the ambulance with him, with her beautiful eyes made of light. He’d woken up on the way to the hospital, getting a fed up scolding from Neda. ‘I turn my attention away for a few hours and this is what you do? It’s absurd how you translate your emotion to physical symptoms. Do you want me to fix that pump of yours so that this type of malfunctions won’t happen again? _Good_.’ She’d snapped her fingers and he’d felt fine again. It didn’t mean that he managed to evade being poked, prodded, stung with needles, X-rayed and whatever else since he got to the hospital. After all, he may be retired, but many still considered him to be a pride of Pine Glen. Little do they know...

“There you go. I’m fine. Are we done here?” Tom asks him with a fake smile. Neda’s an angel. He isn’t just imagining that. It’s awe inspiring. He can’t tell anybody that. Maybe Noah, some day. But for now, it’s his secret. 

A flicker of well hidden frustration pass over Doctor Irons face. “Almost. Symptoms such as these can be stress related. Have you been under any stress lately?”

Tom throws his head back laughing. The pained laugh you do when something is so bad you don’t know how else to react. His face turns serious when he looks back at the doctor. “Yes.”

“Mmh. I’m going to prescribe you oxazepam. It’s a tranquilizer, if you will. You feel yourself getting stressed out, having symptoms like those you described earlier, you take one. It staves off panic attacks and anxiety. It also works as a muscle relaxant, which may help against the pain in your leg. Although I’d advise you not to take them if you’ve taken a painkiller already. It doesn’t mean that you’re mentally ill, or that there’s something wrong with you,” Doctor Irons hastens to assure him. “It is not uncommon for people to need a little help from medication now and then during a lifetime. Even for emotional distress.”

Once again, so quick to point out it isn’t madness. The fear of people thinking there’s something wrong in the brain. He’s so over the perfectly polished facades. “Like… an antidepressant?” He hadn’t been honest about the symptoms he’d had today, but described his regular panic attacks and anxiety. Told the doctor of the pain in the leg. Irons wasn’t his usual doctor. He went over the border to Montana if he had to do a checkup. The doctor that was responsible for his leg was specialised in sports injuries. He usually just called in for a refill of his prescription. He hadn’t told Irons about that. Instead Irons had prescribed him more painkillers. Although, he hadn’t really felt a need for them these last couple of days, he presumes he will, with his sexlife getting active again. 

“No. Not at all. Those are taken daily. Oxazepam is something you only use when you feel you need it. I will recommend you to go talk to someone too. Reverend Bonahue for an instance. Or another _qualified_ priest.” Irons is a Pine Glen local and he’s _not_ a convert. Tom figures he can use that not to be forced to spend the night. 

Tom chuckles. “I’m hardly going to talk to a priest from the congregation, Doctor Irons. I’ve just told my wife I’m divorcing her to start a relationship with a man. Bonahue or Charmichael wouldn’t be very supportive, under the circumstances.”

Irons sucks in breath and does the cross sign over his chest.

“Not so keen on prescribing me anything now, nor keep me overnight, are you?” Tom challenges with a smirk. When the hell did he suddenly decide to take a page out of Justin’s playbook? Using his deviancy like a weapon, instead of hiding it in shame.

“Quite right, Thomas. I’m not. But I take pride in my doctor’s oath. And will help anyone in need. Sodomite or not. I’ll pray for your soul. That you may change your wicked ways,” Doctor Irons says sternly, recuperating from the shock quickly.

“Pray for Grace instead. She’s a victim in the mess that is my life. I’ve fooled her into a sham marriage.” He jumps down from the table. “I’m free to go now?”

“Yes.”

He holds out his hand to shake. Doctor Irons stares at it like he’d offered him poison. Nevertheless, the doctor takes it after a moment’s hesitation. “Good luck, Thomas. Stay healthy so I never have to treat you again.”

“Believe me, Doctor Irons. I avoid hospitals like the plague. And for Grace’s sake, let me remind you of doctor-patient confidentiality.”

Doctor Irons snorts and dries off his hand on his pants after letting go. “I’m a professional, Thomas. Now get out of here.”

Tom is still chuckling when he finds John in the waiting room. “Hey, Johnny boy, let’s leave this hellhole. I’m starving.”

“They’re not keeping you overnight? I overheard someone mention the heart,” John says worriedly, grabbing onto Tom’s shoulder as Tom makes his way towards the exit. Tom wants to hold his hand.

“I’m fine. Just a panic attack. Don’t fret. Irons more or less kicked me out of here after prescribing something tranquilizing against future panic attacks.”

“That doesn’t sound like him. Letting you go so easily.”

“I may or may not have told him I was gay so he wouldn’t keep me here,” Tom admits.

“ _Jesus Christ_! Have you gone mad?”

“You’re the one who said I’d have to stop lying,” Tom counters. He knows the difference. Yet some part of him wants to tell every person they pass on their way out. _I’m gay. I’m gay. I’m gay._ Just let them know. Noah accepts him and Grace… Grace has no choice. He’s setting _her_ free. He hadn’t expected to feel so liberated.

“Yes, but I meant to your loved ones. If word gets around in these parts―“

It’s dangerous. Even with The Church Of Noah winning ground and changing attitudes.

“If that happens, Irons broke doctor-patient confidentiality. He won’t. Anyway, I need to move as quickly as possible. I told Grace.”

“I thought you were going to wait a couple of days. How’d she take it? What did she say?”

“Nothing. She said _nothing_. I was going to wait, build up courage, prepare all the paperwork, and choose a good opportunity. But then I was putting away laundry in her underwear drawer. Where she keeps her antidepressants hidden? I told you that, right?”

John unlocks his car with the key fob, giving him a nod. The air smells fresh after the rain and the sky is blue, dotted with fluffy white clouds. They get into the car, and Tom continues. “You wouldn’t believe how much sexy, classy lingerie she has, John. All of it, to try to entice me. And it just hit me. She needs to be free so much more than I do. Just as I was standing there she came into the room, having come back home for her purse. And I just came out and told her. Told her I was gay, that I was going to force a divorce on her, and that I intended to pursue a relationship with you. I was completely calm. Almost unnaturally so. She said like two sentences. Apart from that she just stared in shock.” He looks at John and smirks. “Kinda like you’re doing now.”

John lets out a disbelieving laugh. “You’re mad.” He grabs Tom by the collar and tugs him in for a hard kiss. “You scared the hell out of me, Tommy. How the hell did you end up on that parking lot?” he says, face near enough for their breaths to mingle. He smells of chewing gum. He’s unshaven and dressed in shabby training gear, having thrown himself out of bed to rush to Tom’s aid. The gum is presumably because he hadn’t brushed his teeth. Like Tom would care. God, but he loves this man to bits. 

Tom isn’t looking so hot either. He’s still in his T-shirt. It’s dried up, but his jeans are dirty from sitting and kneeling on the wet ground. His left hand is bandaged, because apparently, when he collapsed down on all fours, he’s put his hand straight on broken glass. Nothing serious though. An angel saved him. And isn’t that an amazing thought?

“I was driving to you. I figured I’d pick you up and go to the bank, then get a lawyer to draw up divorce papers. Then suddenly it all washed over me and my body acted all funny. I was overheated, nauseous and dizzy. So I stopped at the nearest parking lot and got out to cool myself. I felt that something was wrong and called you.”

“Why didn’t you call 911?”

“Um. I wasn’t thinking clearly, John. I went on instinct, calling you because you were the safest thing I could think of at the time,” Tom says sheepishly.

John smiles. “You fucking moron. I love you, Tom. Don’t ever let me catch you passed out on a parking lot like that again. I couldn’t find your fucking heartbeat. I knew you must have had one, since you were breathing, but _fuck_ , I was so scared.”

“I love you too. But no promises. If I feel like fainting, I damned well gonna faint,” he jokes.

John lets out a pained chortle. “Jackass,” he says, then gives Tom a real kiss that isn’t just a desperate press of lips. He’s still got a chewing gum in his mouth. Tom swipes it with his tongue and leans back, chewing it. John bursts out laughing. “You want a piece of gum, you can just ask,” he says and grins.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Tom retorts with a smirk. “Come on. Let’s get some food, then get changed to look presentable. It’s only noon. We still have time to go to the bank and find a lawyer.”

“We can do that tomorrow. You need to rest.”

“No. I need to get this done or I won’t be _able_ to rest. Besides, you’re with me, keeping an eye on me. And unless Noah calls, needing me to come home, I’m staying with you tonight.”

John makes a couple of cursory protests, but Tom can be just as stubborn as him when he wants to. So eventually, Tom wins out. He needs to keep going, because if he stops to think now that the ball is put in motion, he might freak the hell out and lose all his courage…

* * *


	50. Ripples on the Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IRL, an uncontested divorce in Washington State has a waiting period of 90 days. But this is an AU. I make stuff up as I please. So, in this AU, that waiting period does not exist unless there are children under the age of 18 involved. There isn't in the Rainsboroughs case, so...
> 
> Also, I'm posting from my cell phone right now as I'm away from home this month. The banner seems to not work and maybe not the midtext link. I'll fix it when I can okay?

## May 25th -, 2015 

**PINE GLEN**

Tom had figured it’d be quick business, drawing up divorce papers. He was wrong. He’s got a lot of assets, and dividing them fairly isn’t easy. They get the papers from the bank, meets with a lawyer from the city who walks Tom through what will happen and comes up with (ridiculous) suggestions of what Tom should be aiming for. Apparently, he’s mostly used to dealing with people who wants to get out as much as possible from a divorce.

They go back to the hotel and go through the papers they’ve collected. Tom’s grateful for John. John’s not only done this recently, but is great with numbers. Together they come up with a suggestion, along with a backup suggestion if Grace wants to keep the house.

Tom has this monumental feeling, falling asleep with John. He’s on his way of starting something serious, completely openly, without lying and hiding to those he care about. It’s huge. It’s scary and exhilarating. He’ll be able to make promises to the man he loves. He’d never thought he’d see the day.

They get the test results from the clinic in Bellingham. John had already been tested, but had opted to do it again with Tom. Everything comes back negative. They’re clean, free to bareback. They celebrate it by staying in most of the day, fucking like rabbits, ordering room service. It’s not a great idea while in town. Someone may catch wind of Tom being there, and may wonder why two men share a room with a double bed.

Tom _should_ care, but he doesn’t.

John’s still his old self, starting playful wrestling matches. The difference is that this time, it ends with them making love. 

John surprises him with flowers. It’s an odd bouquet, a big protea in the middle, surrounded by blue, and yellow iris, gladiolus, and daffodils. John explains their meaning. Daffodils for new beginnings and rebirth, gladiolus for strength of character, honour and faithfulness, blue iris for faith and hope, yellow for passion, and lastly, the big Protea for change, transformation, and courage. Tom loves it. Apparently, John is really into the whole flower language thing, and flowers in general. He warns Tom he may not explain the flowers in the future, and gives him a cheeky wink. 

The days after they finish dividing the assets. They’ve got a meeting with the lawyer but have to reschedule when Noah calls, telling the both of them to come home.

* * *

**SAN FRANCISCO**

There’s a knock on the door. He blows a raspberry on Jerry’s belly. “Get up, lazy ass. That’s probably the pizza. Go take a shower while I get the door.”

Jerry whines. “You’re so bossy. Schools done. Can’t you just let me sleep for a month or two?”

He rolls his eyes. “No. Get up. I wanna party. We’ll eat, go out and grab a few drinks, I get to laugh at your inability to dance and you’ll get to punish me for it when we come home. Capische?”

Jerry grumbles, turns over and pulls the blanket over his head. He would be more annoyed if Jerry wasn’t so cute. But he does feel a tendril of annoyance. Jerry and he just didn’t have the same interests. It didn’t clash during the semester, when both of them focused on studying, but now that classes were done for the summer, it was starting to become a problem. He still competed as much and often as he could, and trained every day. But when he had time off he wanted to go out and socialize. Party and have fun. Meet new people. 

Jerry wanted to go to museums, take long ‘romantic’ walks, or stay in. 

He could do that too, no problem. As long as he got his quota of partying and adventure fulfilled. It happened more and more often that they chose to spend time apart, when he met up with Jess instead, and let Jerry do whatever.

The knock comes again. “ _Coming!_ ” he yells, smacks Jerry’s ass through the blanket, getting a little yelp for his effort. “Git up,” he says and leaves the bedside to go fetch his wallet to pay for the pizza.

He goes to the door and opens it while looking down in his wallet. “Alright, how much do I owe?”

“Hey, Sweetie.”

He goes cold all over. His head snaps up. “M-m-mom?”

Sure as shit, Grace is standing there. Well dressed with a luggage trolley beside her, looking as beautiful as always. She smiles warmly and opens her arms for a hug. He steps into the embrace almost robotically, feeling panic mounting. How the fuck will he be able to hide Jerry from her? Grace gives the best hugs and yet he barely feels it. “I’ve missed you, Justin. How are you?” she says without letting go.

“F-fine. Got my grades up. Things are looking up.”

“If you’re trying to chat up the pizza delivery person, you’re in for a spanking, baby,” Jerry calls from behind him somewhere.

_Fuck._

Grace lets go of him, looking startled. 

“Um… that’s… We’ve ordered pizza.”

_Fuck! Why is it so hard to find a believable lie? I never have trouble coming up with bullshit! Fuck!_

Jerry apparently picks up on it not being a pizza delivery, rolls out of bed, and comes to stand in the doorway. Wearing only boxers and one of Justin’s T-shirts, red hair all messed up. Normally he adored seeing Jerry like this. 

Normally. 

“Mom, this is, this is, my b-boyfriend. Jerry. Jerry, this is my mom, Grace,” Justin introduces. He tries to feign nonchalance, missing by _miles._

“ _This_ is your mom? Holy shit. I thought she was an ex.” Jerry smiles widely and offers Grace his hand. “Pleased to finally meet you, Mrs Moore. Justie has gone on and on about you, but he’s never mentioned that you’re so beautiful.”

Grace recuperates and shakes Jerry’s hand with a polite smile. “Nice to meet you too, Jerry.” When she lets go she looks at Justin. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shown up unannounced. You’re obviously busy. I’ll leave you two alone.”

“ _No!_ ” His arm snaps out to grab Grace by the arm. He can’t let her leave. “Come in. Please. Jerry was just leaving.”

Jerry turns his head to give him a ‘what the fuck?’ look. “Excuse me, Mrs Moore, I need to have a private word with my boyfriend,” Jerry says and grips his wrist. Jerry drags him inwards the apartment, while he frantically gestures for Grace to come inside. Jerry drags him to the kitchenette and spins him around to face him. “You’re throwing me _out_?” he whispers harshly.

“What’s the problem? You wanted to sleep anyway. So go home and sleep. I need to speak with mom privately,” he whispers back. He thinks Grace can hear them. She hesitantly steps inside, pulling her luggage with her.

“What’s the _problem_? Are you even listening to yourself? Are you sure she’s your mom, and not an ex?”

He hates when Jerry does that. Hates hates hates it. Sure, he’s got a flirty, outgoing personality, but he’s never even considered cheating on Jerry. Yet Jerry kept dropping insinuations that he had or would. It’s gotten worse since they started doing things apart. It was like Jerry refuses to grasp that he’s fully capable of drinking himself shitfaced with Jess without chatting up somebody. Jerry has a problem coping with his fanclub, and girls offering themselves. It’s not like he doesn’t get Jerry’s insecurities. He just wishes Jerry would wrap his mind around that he’s crazy about his scrawny, freckled ass. “Baby, I’m not _out_ to mom yet,” he whispers urgently.

_I am now. Fuck._

Jerry makes a surprised face, then turns determined. “The bigger reason for me to stay. I can be here to support you.”

“Jerry, baby, please. Just go. I’ll call you later. _Please_.”

Jerry gives him a hurt look. “Alright. If that’s what you want.” Jerry goes to pick his shorts up, put them on, and collect his stuff into his bag.

Meanwhile Jerry packs, he goes to the door to wait anxiously. Grace stands awkwardly to the side. Jerry goes to her and smiles again, reaching out his hand. “Nice to meet you. Sorry we didn’t have time to get to know each other. But apparently, I forgot I had to go do something important.”

Grace shakes his hand with another polite smile. “Another time, perhaps.”

“Sure.” Jerry turns towards the door that he’s holding open for Jerry. In a show of defiance Jerry kisses him tenderly (but thankfully chaste) on his way out. “Catch you later, baby.”

“I’ll call you,” he says and closes the door, then leans his back against it, looking at Grace.

He can’t get a read on her.

He jumps in fright when there’s another knock at the door, just by his head. He rips the door open “Did you forget s― Oh. Pizza. Right. How much do I owe?” He pays for the pizza, closes the door and brings it inside, putting it on his tiny kitchen table. Then he turns back towards Grace, looking nervously at her. He’s not sure what to say. It sucks. Feeling this vulnerable and tongue tied.

“I tried to get a hold of Jessi, but she wasn’t at home and I was sent straight to her voicemail…” Grace begins. 

“Yeah. She’s, um, she’s out on a cruise. One of her friends’ dad owns a big ass yacht. She won’t be home until next week, when her work starts.”

“She’s got a job?”

“Only over the summer. The coffee shop on the corner of her building hired her.”

_Big fucking huge ass elephant. Isn’t she gonna mention it?_

“That’s nice,” Grace says and fingers the handle of her luggage trolley.

“You hungry? Dinner’s ready,” he says and gestures at the table.

“Starving, actually,” she says and gives him a grateful smile.

He pulls out a chair for her and goes to the fridge. “Beer? Or soda? I’m afraid I ain’t big on wine. I’m more of a beer kind of guy. Or drinks and shots. I’ve got vodka and juice too,” he babbles while she sits down.

“Beer’s fine.”

He brings the beers and a kitchen roll. “Are you okay with eating with your hands? I haven’t done the dishes yet. But if you want I can wash up a plate and utensils for you.”

Grace smiles at him. “It’s fine, dear.”

“Good. Good.” He opens the beer cans and hands one to Grace. Then he takes three big gulps of his own. He’s too nervous to eat. He holds his can in his lap, twisting around and around, looking at Grace.

Grace takes a sip of her beer. She’s not very keen on beer. He knows that. Had he known she was coming he would have bought wine. He would have made sure Jerry wasn’t here when she came. “So… you’re gay?”

_There it is._

“No. I’m bi. I like both girls and boys. Except now. Now I’m strictly into the fu― flopper you just met,” answers, correcting his swearword before it’s out of his mouth.

Grace nods. Looks down on her beer can. “Tom knew, I presume?”

“Um. Yes. He knows.”

“Jessi?”

“Yeah.”

“Noah?”

“Mhm.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Grace asks, leaning her head to the side looking hurt and sad.

“Um…” He swallows. _I’m not going to cry. Get a grip!_ His fucking lips wobble on their own accord. Stupid fucking vulnerability. He wishes it wasn’t important to him. That he could meet this with the same defiance and rebelliousness he countered everyone else who judged him. But he _cares_. His voice comes out small and quiet. “I didn’t want to lose another mom…”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Grace puts down her beer and reaches to grab his hand. “I love you like a son, Justin. You _are_ my son. Boyfriend or not.”

He meets her gaze, unsure at first, but seeing only warmth and sadness in her smiling face. No judgement. 

He relaxes. Body going to jelly. “I wasn’t sure, mom. They brought me to Pine Glen when they found out I liked boys too. And since you’re the most old testament-y in the family, when it comes to religious beliefs. Not that I think you’re hateful and vile as so many others in Pine Glen, but I was afraid you’d turn me away.”

“Never. I may not understand it, Justin. I’m not going to lie. I really don’t. But I’ll try. For your sake.”

He puts down his beer and leans over to hug her again, this time he feels it, the warmth, the safe and sheltered feeling her hugs gives him. “Thanks, mom.”

When she frees herself she smiles at him again. “Justin, whenever there’s a choice between my kids and God, or any other people, I will always choose my kids. I don’t care if I go to Hell for it. Okay?”

His lips wobble again. _DON’T CRY, YOU MORON!_ “Hey. Wanna see my new ID and driver’s licence?” he says instead.

“Of course.” 

He grabs his wallet again and digs up the mentioned items, then puts them on the table in front of her, looking at her expectantly. Even more so now, that he knows she ain’t gonna abandon him.

She leans forward to look at them. 

Her hand comes up to press at her heart, tears welling up and a smile like rays of pure sunshine splits her face.

Fuck, he’s glad he threw Jerry out. He hadn’t want to share this moment with anyone. It’s a precious little gem that he selfishly wants all to himself. No. A huge fucking glittering diamond of a moment. His heart swells three sizes when her hand goes out to trace the name reverently. Honoured. _Proud_.

` Justin Tobias Moore`

Proud to have him. He’s trash. He knows he’s trash. But his _mom_ doesn’t think so. _His_ mom.

Fuck, he’s glad she came.

* * *

**PINE GLEN**

Noah’s sitting on the high seat by the kitchen table, drumming his fingers impatiently, looking bored, supporting his head in his palm, elbow on the table. “Took you long enough,” he grouses when they enter the kitchen.

“It took us fifteen minutes to get here,” Tom says and sits down. “Where’s your mom?”

“From now on, that’s none of your business unless she says otherwise.”

“That’s quite an attitude you’ve got going on there,” John remarks when he sits down opposite Tom, placing the three of them in a triangle. There are loads of papers laid out on the table between them, along with a bottle of cognac and thee brandy snifters.

“Alright. _Sheesh_. I’ve been going through paperwork and stuff with mom the last few days. Then I’ve spent the whole day in a board meeting at the new church. I’m tired and want to get this over with,” Noah says irritably, then he sits up straight, looking contrite. “I’m sorry. I had one hell of a migraine earlier today while the people at church argued over menial things. People lack the sense of what’s important.”

“You still have a headache? Have you taken any painkillers?” Tom worries.

“I’m fine. Sorry, dad. I’m just being a brat. No, I didn’t take anything and it went away by itself when Neda gave me a scalp massage. I wanted to have a drink while we did this. To celebrate. Or mourn or whatever. That’s why I didn’t take anything. It’s okay, right? For me to have some?” He looks at Tom for confirmation and gestures at the cognac. They have several bottles at home but Noah had picked out the expensive kind Tom had shown him when he wanted to know what counted as the good stuff.

Tom chuckles. “Of course, Champ. So what is this about?” 

John reaches out and pours the three of them a generous amount of the cognac, placing the glasses in front of them.

“I’m representing mom in the divorce negotiations. Like I’ve represented you these last couple of days.” He smirks tiredly. “Luckily, this isn’t Kramer versus Kramer. Or Powell versus Powell, come to think of it,” he jokes.

John snorts in amusement.

“You shouldn’t have to act as a go-between,” Tom says, concerned.

“Dad, it’s fine. I’ve been wanting you to do this for a while now. It’s no bother. Just soo much paperwork. And let me just say, now that I’ve got full insight in our economy― _Wow._ We’re really loaded. Good job, dad.” He tops it off with a slow motion mock punch on Tom’s shoulder.

Both John and Tom laughs. It’s cheeky. Even within the family, income isn’t something bragged, or talked about. Jessi and Noah had been able to read what Tom earned on sport’s sites if they were interested. But they didn’t know the total sum of the accumulated wealth. Or, now Noah knew.

“Your old man knew how to handle a stick, Champ,” Tom says with a grin.

“Still does,” John adds behind a fake cough. Tom sniggers and Noah groans. John gives Noah an innocent smile, getting an amused headshake in return. 

Noah reaches for his drink and holds the snifter up for a silent toast. The all drink, Noah shuddering when he puts the glass down. “Okay. Let’s get to it. This,” Noah points at the collection of papers on the table. “Is mom’s suggestion on how the assets should be divided. She waiver any claim on alimony, reasoning that you don’t have a job and she’ll still come out of this a wealthy woman. I want you to read it through and make suggestions if you have anything you want to change or dispute. I will tell her what you oppose and we will work it out. This,” he points at another heap of papers, “is a list of things in the house that she wishes to keep. Furniture, paintings, God damned plates and soo much crap. She wants you to go through it, tell me if you oppose anything, and again, we’ll work it out. You should go through it and make your own list. The rest she suggests to have us three kids get a first pick of, then donate what's left to goodwill. She wants to sell the house. If you wish to keep it― but you don’t, so I won’t bother go through what she said about that. We’re leaving Pine Glen, all of us,” he says decisively and turns towards John. “Dad promised me that if he moved, I’m allowed to live with him, so if you’re planning to move in together straight away, I’m a package deal.”

Both Tom and John are grinning at him. How could they not. When they came in they were met by a sulky teenager, and now he’s transformed to a sharp, no-nonsense type.

“I’m serious, John,” Noah adds when he isn't getting an answer right away. 

“We haven’t talked about it yet, Noah. But that eliminates living on my boat. Don’t worry. If Tom wants to move in with me, you’ll be included in the plans,” John assures him.

“Good. I’ve got more I want to talk about once this is cleared up, so let’s get to it,” Noah urges.

Tom reaches for the list of things Grace wants to keep. “John, would you look at the economic part for me?” he asks. John had been pouring over that on his benefit these last couple of days. He had a better understanding in the matter.

John reaches for the papers and starts skimming through them. He chuckles silently. “Great minds think alike, it seems. Grace’s suggestion isn’t exactly the same, but almost.”

“No passive aggressive grabs?”

“Nope. The biggest difference is the amount she’s marked out for the kids. You were a bit more generous.”

“ _She_ was less generous to the kids?” Tom says, surprised.

Noah answers that. “She’s earmarked money for all three of us to get through college without needing to work or worrying about not having somewhere to live. But she reasoned, you’d both have money, and if more was needed, we can always ask you for it. We’re supposed to learn to work, like God intended us to. Not just lay back and count on your money. She didn’t even want it earmarked on the final paper, just put in separate accounts that you or she governs. She suggested she’d take care of Justin and Jessi’s bits, and you govern mine, since I’d be living with you, or near you.” He’s procured a writing pad and a pencil, that he’s tapping against the pad.

“Why doesn’t she want it in the final paper?”

“Because she doesn’t want us to think it’s our money to do as we please with. She wants us to firmly grasp the value of money before we suddenly have access to a big heap of it. She trusts you to see to our best, if you want to insist to govern the parts for all of us. Is this something you oppose?” Noah asks and leans forward, putting pen to paper, getting ready to write.

“No. Just wanted clarification.”

“I’ve got something here you will want to change,” John says, looking at his papers.

“What?” Tom asks. He’s found nothing in the list.

“The cars. She wants to keep hers. Then she wants you to keep your car and sell the family car, splitting the profit. I suggest keeping the family car and selling yours. It will lower the value of the car sale.”

“Why keep the family car?”

“To transport things to and fro the boat if we need to pack a lot of provisions if we’re at sea for long. Or for when we go antiquing, and find furniture. Or if we want to bring the kids along for a weekend shooting competition. The list is endless. We’ve got greater use for a big car. We’ve already got a smaller car.”

Tom’s grin split his face, making his cheeks hurt. John’s consistent use of ‘we’, even including the kids in his calculations for the future makes Tom feel stupidly in love.

“Is that something you want to change, dad?”

“Yes.”

Noah writes it down.

* * *

**SAN FRANCISCO**

“So what are you doing here? Don’t get me wrong, I’m delighted for the visit. Just, surprised,” he asks when they’ve eaten the pizza, talked about him and had a couple of beers.

Grace looks down on her lap. “I didn’t know where else to go. Tom told me he’s… he’s… homosexual...”

“He came out to you?”

Her gaze flicks up. “Yes. I guess you know already?”

“Yeah. My gaydar is fairly good. ‘S kinda why I was sticking to him like a burr. Kindred spirit, right? He understood how fuu― flopping scary and demoralising living in that shithole is for someone like me. I think I would have killed myself if I hadn’t met him.”

“Did. Did you know about him and John?”

“Know what?”

“That they were in a relationship.”

He snorts. “Yeah like hell they were. I love John an’ all, but he was a homophobic asshole. He didn’t know Tom is gay. And when he found out, he freaked the fu― flop out. That’s what their fight was about.”

“Are you sure? John came back and Tom said they’re in a relationship.”

“Positive. Tom accidentally mentioned something that made John figure out me too. So not too long ago, John came to visit me, to talk it over.” He reaches out and takes both Grace’s hands in his. “Look, mom. I’m not going to lie about it. I knew Tom was head over heels in love with John. And John was completely mad about Tom until he realised Tom is gay. I’d pinned John as bi and in denial about it. If he came back and Tom told you they’re in a relationship, it’s new. I’d imagine they’d want to tell you as soon as possible, because John’s an honourable man who doesn’t like to creep, and both of them care for you.”

_Pfft. Yeah that’s one way of putting it. John’s a possessive fucker who doesn’t want to share, more like it._

He’s not going to tell Grace that. He’s protective of everyone involved in this. John was right when he made his threats. He stands the risk of losing people he wants to keep if he doesn’t play his cards right.

Grace eyes fill with tears. “It doesn’t feel like it. We’re getting a divorce and I feel…” her eyes spill over and she crumbles, crying.

“Hey, hey―“ He scoots his chair closer and hugs her, cooing consolidating words, like she’s done for him in the past.

* * *

**PINE GLEN**

“Phew. That was a lot faster done than I’d thought,” Noah says when they’d gone over the details Grace had wanted. All in all, it amounted to a 50/50 split, more or less. Noah had left the room with the papers to go fax them with remarks of the changes, then come back.

“It’s easy when people aren’t trying to hurt each other,” John remarks.

“How is your mother doing? When is she coming home?” Tom asks worriedly. She must be hurting so much, and here he is, jubilantly happy about getting his freedom and starting a new life with the man of his dreams. It makes his heart twist with guilt for a moment.

“She isn’t. She’ll come back for the final hearing, that’s it. Oh, and she also demand that you take care of packing down the stuff in the house. I’ll make sure it’s delivered to her. Look, dad, she doesn’t want to see you anytime soon. She’s really heartbroken about all this, but it isn’t your job to console her about it, okay? You just focus on getting on with your shit and let her focus on doing the same. She can’t get over you, if you two are in her face. So she’s leaving us three to clear the practical mess. I fucking hope you stick around because it’s too fucking much for me to do.” Noah’s tiredness and frustration gets apparent with the testiness of the last sentence.

Tom isn’t bothering correcting language. “Of course, son. I’ve stayed away, very much out of respect of your mother, not to avoid any consequences.”

“Alright. But could you stay here? Mom’s out of town and I don’t want to be alone. I don’t care if you sleep together or whatever. As long as you _stay_.”

It isn’t even a question.

John moves to get up. “I’ll go check out from the hotel.”

“Wait.” Noah’s hand reaches out to stop him. “Can we talk about living arrangements and stuff first? I want that cleared up so I don’t have to lie awake all night, thinking about it.”

John lowers himself down again. “We can do that.”

“Are you two moving in together?”

Tom and John share a look, but Tom has no idea how John feels about it. Tom looks back at Noah, who’s sipping his second glass of cognac. “Eventually, I expect. But I would think John doesn’t want to rush into things. And might want to live by himself for awhile.”

“You don’t?” John asks.

“No.”

“Then hell, I’d say let’s bulldoze into it,” John quips with a warm smile. “We’ve been apart for long enough don’t you think?”

“You want to move in with me straight away?” Tom asks with a hopeful bubbly thrill.

“Yes I do. And if you’re worried it won’t work out, then we can simply rent, rather than buy.” He beams at Tom, Tom is beaming back at him.

Noah rubs his temples. “Enough of the sweetness for a beat, okay? Or Neda will come here to satisfy his sugar addiction. Just. Just focus on the task ahead, alright?”

Tom chuckles at him. “Okay, son. I propose we _do_ buy a house. With an annex or a part converted for rental. That way you’d get an apartment of your own without actually living alone. And when you have friends over, or your girlfriend, then we won’t have to bother each other. How’s that sounding?” he asks and looks between the two.

“Sounds good to me,” John says. He has that excited gleam in his eyes, of a child at Christmas, but tries to tamper down his glee.

“That would be awesome,” Noah agrees.

“So where do we move? Where are you planning to go to college? Have you gotten any acceptance letters yet?”

Noah lifts his buttocks and takes forth several acceptance letters that he’s been sitting on, handing them over. He spins his glass and raises his hand towards his mouth, biting his nail, looking at his glass rather than Tom. There are five letters. Stanford, Salem State University, Texas Christian University, Saint Xavier University, and Windy City University―All located in different states. “Those are the ones that I got into. But… um… I’m not going. I’m not gonna go to college,” he says around his nail.

Both Tom and John look up at him in surprise. “You know money isn’t an issue?” Tom says, thinking it’s some ‘earn your keep’-complex, at the same time as John, with a troubled frown, says “Education is important, Noah. If you want to have a decent job in the future, you need a degree.”

“Um, yeah. I get that. But, I’ve been praying about this, and discussing it with David and Neda. And, um. I think, the kind of education I need, won’t be had in schools.” He removes his hand from his mouth and runs it through his hair, making a mess of it. He looks a bit unsure and apologetic. “I’m not saying I’m never gonna go. But not now.” His expression turns determined. “I used to think God wanted me to restore humanity into faith in Pine Glen. But I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s something else. Something bigger. And, um, my task right now is to listen to people. All kinds of people. Neda agrees. So I want to travel. Visit groups of people and learn about their faith, how they perceive God, or what dictates their moral compasses. Like, native indians, mormons, quakers. Hell, even inmates. Go on pilgrimages and whatever. I don’t know why God wants me to do this, but He does. Of that I’m sure. That’s why I’ve been locked up in a friggin board meeting with my church all day. To arrange things for when I move away.” He holds up his hands in defense. “I’m not expecting you to fund me or anything. I’ll get a job and save up to my expenses. I just need a place to live. Like a base, to come home to. I can’t do this by myself.”

“Of course I’ll fund you, Noah. If you want to do God’s bidding, I’ll support you.” Tom holds up the acceptance letters, lips quirked in a little smile. “I’m living proof that you don’t need this to be successful.”

“Tommy, are you sure this is a wise idea?” John asks with a concerned expression.

Tom reaches over the table and takes his hand. “Honey, you haven’t been here. God has chosen Noah for something. It isn’t just a religious movement and setting up a new church, like it might have appeared to you. Especially since my son tends to downplay the proofs of divine interference around him. He’s performed miracles, like rejuvenating a dead plant, and healed sick people. You can spot who’ve converted by their gardens, that are blooming like never before. Stores that have denied us service are beset with decay and vermin. There are endless little things that keeps happening around him.”

Noah looks more embarrassed than when Grace showed Caroline baby pictures of him. John looks… not convinced. A bit uncomfortable. “Are you sure it’s God doing it?”

“I’m not a witch or a devil worshipper,” Noah says grumpily. By now it’s the most common accusation his critiques throw his way.

“I didn’t imply― What I meant is, maybe there’s a logical explanation?”

Tom sniggers. “God interfering _is_ the logical explanation.” John doesn’t look convinced. Tom doesn’t blame him. He gets an idea and turns to Noah. “Show him.”

“What?”

“Show him. Perform a minor miracle. I’m sure God will grant you the power to do so.” 

_He will, won’t He, Neda? Angel of the Lord, always watching._

He hears a dark chuckle in the back of his mind.

“Dad. I can’t just do these things out of the blue! I can’t control it,” Noah protests with mounting distress.

“Sure you can. All you need to do is pray for it. Hold on.” He gets up and walks to the cupboard, rummaging around in it. John watches with avid curiosity while Noah stares, almost frightened. Any miracle Noah had been said to perform by touch, real or imagined, had been about healing somehow. He spots a bag of beans, opens it, and takes one out, then goes back to the table. “Hold out your hand,” he instructs Noah. Apprehensively, Noah obeys, and Tom drops the bean in his palm. “Now, all you’ve got to do is pray for a small miracle to prove to John, that God truly has beset you with this quest.”

“Dad. It doesn’t work like that. God’s power isn’t some kind of party trick. Nothing’s going to happen.”

“So maybe it won’t.” Tom shrugs. “Then John will have to take our word for it. It doesn’t matter. I’ll fund you anyway. You know you’ve got my full support in this. Whether you choose to say screw it, and live a normal life, or if you choose to devote yourself to God. Just try.”

Noah swallows, glances between the two of them and the bean. “I don’t know what you expect to happen anyway,” he mutters and closes his eyes.

A few seconds later the bean starts opening up, sprouting a little root and a shoot growing upward. Tom’s belly flops in awed excitement and John gasps, eyes going round. The sprout keeps growing, and Noah opens his eyes to look at the plant growing in his hand, mouth slack and open, eyes wide.

“Holy shit!” Noah exclaims.

“Jesus Christ!” John agrees as the plant starts budding, then bursts into bloom, a cluster of white flowers.

Noah laughs in wondered delight and turns the flower around in his hand, inspecting it. “Holy shit!” he repeats. “I didn’t know bean flowers looked like this,” he remarks curiously. 

“They don’t,” John says with a rough voice and reaches out to touch the flower carefully. “These are Stephanotis flowers, and they mean either happiness in marriage, or, I think, in this case, a desire to travel. Their seeds come from large pods and are spread with the wind, like dandelion seeds.”

“How did you know it would work?” Noah asks Tom without taking his awed eyes from the flower.

“I didn’t.” He’s as awed as both of them, but at the same time, he feels calm and collected. This is as it should be. He was as sure it was going to work, as he’s sure Neda’s an angel. His faith is more than restored.

* * *

**SAN FRANCISCO**

So. Much. Crying.

Once Grace started, it was like she couldn’t stop. It had felt like hours until she managed to collect herself enough to talk. It's a pain in the ass because usually when you had to comfort a chick who’s just been dumped, you can say that the guy had been a total douchewad. Not so now. The more he thinks back on it now that he’s not blindly in love, the more he finds that Tom had been the first to adopt him―acting as a mentor and guardian. Very much like a dad. Until they started fucking, that is. 

Grace tells him, word for word, what Tom said. Fucking kudos to Tom. Not for breaking Grace’s heart of course. But for being straightforward, honest, and reassuring at the same time. 

Awesome wording. 

Yeah. Tom did good.

Grace doesn’t get how well he did it. For obvious reasons she can't see how smooth and well it had been done. Both the coming out and the dumping. _Her_ world shattered to pieces 

He wants to be as good at dumping people too. Respectfully, with no room for negotiation.

Grace is still trying to make sense of what Tom said. They’ve depleted his storage of beer and moved onto vodka and juice, sitting in the couch.

“...I feel so humiliated and so stupid! How come I didn’t see it? He says he’s always been… like that. I’ve never considered the possibility.” Grace is leaving tipsy and going for drunk. She’s even smoking. He’s got his legs up in her lap while hers rest on the tiny living room table. He lives in a studio apartment, but has collected cheap secondhand furniture and crammed stuff in, creating sections―bed, ‘living room’, study area with a desk and comfy chair, and dining area. In reality it was just crammed along the walls with an open space covered by a carpet in the middle. His walls are as covered with stuff as the rest of the apartment. It ain’t exactly winning any prizes for stylishness or going on the front cover of Residence Magazine for a special issue on compact living. But he loves it. 

“Oy, don’t beat yourself up, mom. He’s been hiding it well. He’s had to.”

“But _you_ saw it straight away. You said so yourself,” Grace says with a desperate edge.

“Mom. I’m constantly looking for it. Constantly. Searching for the tiny tells. You gotta know what you’re looking for, and even then, Tom’s not obvious. He’s floppin good at hiding it, okay? Then, if you take into account how much he loves you―“

“He doesn’t love me!”

He takes a deep breath for patience. “He loves you. He just doesn’t want to flop you. That’s the difference.”

Despite herself, Grace giggles at his consistent censorship of himself. He smirks in self-satisfaction. 

“Mom, look. He’s been loaded with guilt about the situation. He _loves_ you, and wants you to be happy. He’s always known he couldn’t be the one to make you happy, and has hated himself for it.”

“I don’t know what to do now. You kids are all grown up and don’t need me. I can’t stay in Pine Glen. The harassment I’ve received from people is wearing on me, even if I love what I do down in the poor neighbourhoods. It’s going to get worse when this gets out. I don’t even know how to tell my parents. I can’t stand to be in the house. There’s too many memories, and finding out it was all a lie. _Everything_ was a lie. But I’ve got no education, so I can’t get a decent job. And where am I going to live? I feel so lost.” Grace reaches out to refill her drink, mixing vodka and juice 50/50. It’s been like this. She’s uttered thoughts as they come, bordering on incoherently. He wants her to smile. 

“I’d offer you to move in here, but honestly, I say flop too many times a day for that to be a good idea,” he jokes and takes a hit on his cigarette, ashtray rested in his lap. He gets another giggle from Grace. It’s good. The more she laughs, the better. “But I still say, move here,” he says after he’s blown out smoke sharply upward. “To San Francisco. You’d be close to both Jess and me. You can come watch me compete and we can have dinner once or twice a week. Plus, who says there’s an age limit on taking a degree? You can go to college. Get an education. Face it mom, you’ll be walking away with a fortune in the divorce. You don’t _need_ to work. Not for monetary reasons anyway. I know you need to do it, for yourself. So why not go back to school, get a degree, and start up your own company when you’re done.”

Grace looks at him thoughtfully. “I hadn’t considered that. It’s…” She reaches out for his lit cigarette. He passes it over, watches her take a hit on it, mulling his suggestion over. “It’s not a bad idea. But wouldn’t you feel like I intrude on your freedom if I move here?”

“Nu-uh. I've missed you, mom. I’d love to have you close. Especially if you’re cool with me having a boyfriend.”

“It’s. It’s going to take some time getting used to the thought. Maybe. Maybe tomorrow we can go out to eat, the three of us? So I can get to meet him for real?”

He grins. Happy. Better than he could have asked for. “That’d be awesome. I wanted to bring him home for spring break, but didn’t, for fear of how you’d react.” His smile fades. “We’ll see what he’ll say about it. He’s gonna be pissed about me throwing him out. Plus, I’ll have to convince him you’re not an ex.”

Grace giggles. “Oh come now. I’m too _old_ for him to think so.”

“Think again. I don’t discriminate agewise, and you’re _hot_. Um, I’m a bit of a slut when I’m single, okay? He thinks I sleep around now too. Which is flopped up. I don’t do that. But he’s insecure about my fame and all. So since you’re so beautiful, he’ll be uncertain about it. I know him. He wasn’t joking about thinking you’re an ex. You’re beautiful enough to be.”

Awkward.

Some things you shouldn’t tell your mom.

Grace looks forlorn. “That’s nice of you to say, Justin. But I don’t feel beautiful. Never did. I’ve _tried_ to be. I keep a careful diet, do morning workout to keep fit, take care in how I dress, and still I just feel ugly. I’ve loved Tom with all my heart and really tried to be pretty for him. I keep thinking there’s something wrong with me. For Christ sake, he’s leaving me for another man!”

He sits up straight, removing his legs from Grace’s lap and leans towards her to look into her sad gaze, to really push home his earnestness. “Mom. You’re gorgeous. Tom thinks so too. But you never stood a chance to seduce him. Really. You did _not_ cause his homosexuality. There’s _nothing_ wrong with you. No-thing! In fact, I’m gonna prove it to you. We’re gonna go out. I’m gonna fix your hair and makeup, then we’ll go out, and I’m going to point out to you everyone who finds you attractive. I said I had a gaydar, but in reality, it’s more of a general -dar. Come on.” He hands her the ashtray for her to put the cigarette out.

“What? Right _now_?”

“Yep. Right now.”

“I don’t know…”

“But I do. Come on!”

It’s a brilliant idea. Grace lets herself be coaxed into going out, bar hopping. He films people checking her out behind her back and shows it to her, points out people watching her, tells her when smiles are directed towards her, introduces her to good looking men he sees that looks at her in a certain way, so that they can flirt with her or dance with her before he takes her to the next place. They’re both having a blast. It’s a fucking wonder that she’s been totally unaware of how much attention she gets because of her looks. He tells her to take any phone number she’s offered, programming it into her phone and snapping a contact picture. She says she’s not interested in starting something new. That’s not the point. He wants her to go on dates to be spoiled and courted, not to find a new relationship. ‘Mom, let them make you feel beautiful, like Tom never could.’ So she keeps the phone numbers and lets herself forget her misery for a moment.

It’s a fucking shame that it’s so much more fun to party with his mom than with his boyfriend.

* * *

**PINE GLEN**

“Are you sure Noah’s really fine with moving to Maine?” John asks. He’s sitting on Tom’s naked ass, massaging his back with deft, oil-slick fingers. At John’s suggestion, he’s taken one of the anxiety pills, _not_ to stave off anxiety, but as a muscle relaxant. They work. Oh Lord, but they really do. Constant stress and bouts of pain makes you tense. Being tense for long periods of time causes a lot of second degree aches he’s barely been aware of having. The effect of the pill is short term, and has almost worn off. But John took the opportunity to give him a full body massage while he was this relaxed.

“Mmmh,” Tom hums in equal degrees affirmation and pleasure. “I think so. He’s not shy about declaring his own needs. Oooohh…. Jesus, baby, right _there_...” he moans when John finds a particularly tight knot and works it over.

“It’s so far away from Jessi and Juss. You don’t think he’ll miss them? I could just as easily ask to be permanently placed in one of our California offices, or stay in the position I am now, going from office to office.”

“He’s going to be travelling anyway. I’m sure he’ll visit them often enough. You said the Maine office was closest to the coast. We’ll get a house by the water, with a wooden dock just outside, all our own, where we’ll keep Phoenix. He’ll love it as much as we do.” None of the visions/dreams Tom’s had, had shown him Noah living with them. But Neda’s said nothing is set in stone. Tom doesn’t want to let go of Noah yet, any more than Noah’s willing to let go of him. 

Neda’s an angel. An honest to God, angel. It’s tempting to tell John and Noah that, after the bean flower miracle. He won’t. They’ll find out sooner or later on their own. He thinks that if Neda wanted Noah to know, she would have told Noah by now. 

“I hope so. I’m glad he’s coming with. I have a dream about going on long trips with you at sea, and I’ll feel so much better knowing someone else is left at home to watch over the house. Unless he’ll come with.”

“In that case we’ll have to get a bigger boat. He’s a bit to old to be sleeping between us.”

John chuckles. “True. One step at a time I guess. I’m just so excited. I want to start looking for houses straight away. Did you call Jessi?”

“The call went directly to voicemail. I left a message. Juss didn’t pick up either, so I texted him. I’ll do another try to get a hold of them tomorrow. There’s no rush though.”

“I don’t know. I think you should go talk to Jessi as soon as possible. Come out to her, and tell her about me.”

“Let’s focus on packing, fixing the paperwork, and putting the house on the market.”

John hums uncertainly.

“I can tell Jessi when she gets home to pick out things she wants to kee _eeep_. Dear Jesus that feels good!” Tom’s skin prickles from pleasure as John finds another tender knot. He gasps and curls into the touch. John chuckles darkly, his dick twitching in response to Tom’s apparent pleasure. John is a marvel bigger than Neda. Tom might never grasp how John managed to embrace his own sexuality so quickly. It’s like stretching the rubber strips of a slingshot, holding it back, then letting go and watch the projectile fly with great speed and height. That’s how shamelessly and enthusiastically John’s taken to sex with another man―or more specifically, with him. That is more awe inspiring than God and miracles to Tom.

* * *

John’s so beautiful in his sleep. He’s a needy sleeper. He’ll move along with you in his sleep, if you move away, needing the touch. Tom strokes a lock of hair out of John’s face, smiling to himself. He’d woken up today, feeling that something was different. It had taken him a good fifteen minutes to figure out what was missing.

He felt no anxiety. 

It’s been such a pronounced part of him for as long as he can remember, that he lies staring in wonder at the ceiling for several minutes. He thinks he should be feeling guilty for how Grace’s heart must be breaking. But he doesn’t. She’s free to find someone that can make her happy. She’s as free as he is. The guilty feeling just won't come. He turned to stare at the man snoring (and drooling) softly at his side, feeling such an overwhelming affection it almost hurts, but in a good way.

His life is wide open. It’s scary, but he won’t face it alone. 

The rest of the morning continues the same way. No anxiety. He keeps waiting for it to hit, but it doesn’t. Noah’s spoken to Grace. Since they agree on splitting everything 50/50, she’s suggested they’d buy houses out of their part of the monetary assets, pre-divorce, to be able to speed things along. Things couldn’t go more smoothly. Noah’s already looking at houses. He appears excited about moving.

Tom spots Paul through a window, tending his roses. He thinks giving Paul a thank you for all the help he's offered the family is long overdue. As uncomfortable as his spying has been, it still served to protect them better than any alarm could have done. He goes to fetch something special. Once given to him as a gift, then stored away for a really special occasion― a cognac so fine he wouldn’t even touch it himself. If you’d buy it, it’d cost $6,400 a bottle. When he taught Noah what counted as ‘good stuff’, he’d served him fine _affordable_ (albeit expensive) stuff. This was more than just cognac. 

[The Frapin Cuvée 1888 Grand Cru Cognac](http://www.extravaganzi.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/Pierre-Frapin-Cuvee-1888-Grand-Cru-Cognac-1.jpg) came in a crystal decanter with a decorative spiral of gold thread around it, and a 24-carat gold stopper. It had a wooden box that opened up like a tiny wardrobe, mirror in the back, with a small drawer at the bottom, containing a gilded fob watch with a block of Pierre Frapin perfume. The doors of the box had shelves where the gift-giver had placed two hand blown tulip cognac glasses. The drink probably tasted good, but it was more a boastful work of art, than anything. Tom considered it too showy, and too boastful, to have it stored where people could see it. Bragging about money isn’t the Christian thing to do.

He takes the box then heads outside, not bothering with shoes. It’s warm outside, and once he’s off the gravel path, crossing the grass towards the hedge, being barefoot is pleasant. “Hey, Paul! Got something for you,” he calls out, gaining Paul's attention.

Paul stretches from his hunched over position, meeting Tom’s gaze with a mix of curiosity and suspicion, that melts into pure curiosity at the sight of Tom’s big, open smile. “You seem unusually happy this morning,” he remarks.

“Well, some days start off as blessed,” Tom answers, coming up to hedge. He looks down at the roses that Paul are pruning. Big, pale yellowish white exquisite flowers. “We may not always get along perfectly, Paul, but I’ve got to say, your roses is something else.”

Paul snorts with a sardonic little smile when Tom says they don’t get along, then look down on the roses in question, smile softening up. “Yes, they’re astounding this year.”

“I’m not talking about this year. I’ve always admired your roses. You’ve got a special talent. No matter what weather God gives us, you make them flourish and bloom in abundance, spoiling us with their sweet perfume in the air. I can tend a garden well enough, but I’ve always envied and admired your talent for making even the scrawniest, saddest sapling grow up to be a marvel.”

Paul chuckles in bemusement and takes off his round steel frame glasses to shine them on his shirt. He puts them on and tilts his head. “You have?” he asks, not entirely convinced.

Tom nods. “I tried, back in the days. Bought a couple of rose bushes and planted in the yard on the backside. Didn’t have the confidence to plant them on this side, where you’d see them. Struggled with them a couple of years until me and Grace gave up on them. I figured, why despair over my own failure, when I can admire the hard work of someone who’s got green fingers? It’s the same reason we stopped buying fireworks. Your fireworks are the best. Not just because you set up so many of them, Jacksons do that too, but because you seem to have thought it through, and really put on a show, like when professionals do it. Almost like there’s a theme to it.”

Paul’s eyes go wider with every word out of Tom’s mouth, expression turning open and unguarded. He breaks out in a genuine smile. “Thank you. I didn’t think anyone noticed. Most people just get drunk and shoot of rockets for the bang. It’s a disgrace. If you’re going to scare wildlife and pets, you should have a thought behind it. I start planning a couple of months ahead, deciding what I will need and how it should look, timing it to last exactly 20 minutes.”

It’s Tom’s turn to be surprised. “Really? Well your efforts clearly shows. The kids always wanted to go home to watch your fireworks on the 4th of July, rather than stay downtown to watch the official ones.”

Paul’s not a tall man, but Tom swears he grows several inches, hearing this. “Hm. Well. Yes. Grace might have mentioned that once, long ago.”

“Speaking of Grace, I came to give you this. As a thank you for keeping my family safe while I’ve been away during seasons.” He holds out the wooden box to Paul. “I wasn’t aware until recently, how much you’d done to keep rabid fans away from them.”

Paul puts the hand pruner he’s been holding, in his pocket, removes his gardening gloves and stuffs them in his other pocket, then accepts the box Tom’s holding out. “Oh. Keeping away sinful, reprehensible rabble with no respect for good, God fearing families, is hardly something you have to than―“ He opens the box and stutters in his speech, then trails the sentence off in a softer preoccupied tone. “―nk me for…” After looking over the contents of the box with a surprised, almost puzzled expression. He licks his lips uncertainly, closes the box carefully, and looks back at Tom. “Nevertheless, I appreciate the gesture. Say… Have you really been admiring my roses? You’re not just saying that to be polite?”

Tom chuckles and shakes his head. “No, Paul. I truly am in awe of them. Personality clash between us or not.”

Paul snorts in amusement and turns to look at his house thoughtfully for a beat. “Would you like to see the rest of them?” he offers when he turns back.

“There’s more?”

“Yes. I keep most of them at the back, where hooligans won’t be tempted to steal or destroy them. Don’t want some degenerate drunken teen to wander by and think his lay for the night deserves to have any of the beauties I’ve toiled so hard to cultivate,” he says with obvious distaste.

All these years, and Tom’s never seen the back of Paul's yard. Paul rarely invited guests over, and the few times he hosted something, he didn’t like if the guests wandered further than the dining room. Tom’s never particularly wanted to know anything about Paul. But now he finds himself being curious.

“Yes. I’d love to,” he answers.

“Come around then. We have to go through the patio door.”

“On my way.”

* * *

Once over at Paul’s side, Tom feels a bit self-conscious about being barefoot, but Paul doesn’t care. He ushers Tom throught the house, to the kitchen where he puts the cognac box on the counter, then opens the patio door and motions for Tom to go through it.

Tom steps outside and sucks in a breath. “Jesus Christ, Paul. I’ve paid money to visit botanical gardens that were less impressive.”

Paul has walled his yard off on this side, making it accessible only through the patio door in the kitchen. His yard is as big as Tom’s, but without pool, decks, barbecue and everything else needed to keep guests. Instead there’s solid, high wooden fence with trellises for roses to climb on, a white stone path, a small white table with intricate white matching chairs in the middle, a little bird bath fountain, and soo many roses. Bushes, climbing shrubs, high almost tree like ones, in all possible colours. The air is heavy with their perfumes. It’s a gorgeous sight.

“I hadn’t expected a _jock_ to appreciate roses,” Paul says, putting emphasis on the word jock to carry resentment and contempt. “It isn’t exactly a masculine pastime I’m indulging.”

Tom chuckles and half turns to look at the skinny little man. “Paul. Man or woman, to bring a garden to this state, great knowledge, patience, and an eye for details is required. This is truly admirable. I’d imagine Eden looking something like this. Can I…?” he gestures towards the garden, asking wordlessly for permission to explore.

Paul’s eyes beams with restrained pride behind the glasses. “Go ahead. You have any favorite types?”

“I like roses with more than one colour.”

“Then let me show you.” Paul goes past him and urges him along for a guided tour. He shows him a climbing rose called Joseph’s coat, with big round flowers gradienting from yellow, orange, to pink, then a floribunda rose called Birthday Girl, with delicate petals in light yellow and soft pink, then two hybrid tea roses, one with red satiny petals, their backsides strikingly white, named Osiria, and a similar type called Dark Night, dark red like dried blood, with yellow backsides. He’s got striped roses, which they agree aren’t quite as pretty. It reminds Tom of Alice in Wonderland, when the queen demanded they paint the white roses red. When he voices that thought Paul laughs heartily.

“John would probably appreciate this garden even more than I do. He’s very into flower language, and chooses flowers for their meaning when he gives away bouquets.”

“Really? I’d never imagine that about him.”

“No. But on the other hand, I’d never imagine you had such a treasure hidden away out back either,” Tom says as they’re going back through Paul’s house. “You’ll be getting new neighbours soon enough. I hope they can appreciate your talents too.”

“Oh? You’re moving?”

“We are. We’ll be putting up the house for sale this week.”

“Why?”

“You might as well be the first to know, since you’re our closest neighbour. I’m divorcing Grace.”

Paul frowns. “She’s a remarkable woman. Why would you let her go?”

Tom stops outside of Paul’s door and turns to face him. “To give her a chance at happiness. I’m leaving her to be with the man I love,” he says, for once curious rather than afraid, as to how Paul will react.

“Hah! I _knew_ it! I told Grace, don’t trust the perfect ones. There’s bound to be something wrong with them. ‘Oh no, she said, there’s nothing wrong with Tom. He _is_ perfect. And here you are, confessing to be…” Paul pauses what begun as a spiteful rant, to quirk a lopsided smile, raise an eyebrow, and tap the side of his nose conspiratorially, adding “... _liberal_ ,” with such pointed humour that a bemused laughter escapes Tom. Paul chuckles, shaking his head. “I'd never thought there'd come a day when I'd complain about ‘the gays’ stealing our women.”

Tom laughs again, completely blindsided by the humour with which Paul is taking it. “Yes. It’s the gay agenda at work.”

Paul sniggers. “That’s what I thought. I bet, if I told Bonahue that the sodomites are stealing our women, he’d write a whole sermon about it too.” He raises his hand to spin a finger at the side of his head, indicating that he thinks Bonahue is loopy. 

Tom laughs again, baffled. “You know, that’s actually a sermon I’d be interested to hear.”

Paul nods. “Probably fit for comedy central. But you’re not allowed to laugh at church so what’s the point? I’m never putting my foot in that church again, so it doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?” Paul is supposedly a convert, but Tom would expect him to flee the new church as soon as he heard about these scandals.

Paul pushes his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose with a finger and scrutinizes Tom with pursed lips. Instead of answering he counters with a question. “Am I really the first to know?”

“About what? The move, the divorce, or that I’m gay?”

“All of it.”

“The board of Noah’s church knows he’s moving, but not why. Noah, Grace, Neda, and John knows I’m gay and divorcing. Apart from that? I don’t know who they’ve told, but you’re the first I’ve told.”

“And Jessica?”

“I’ve failed to get a hold of her.”

Paul raises his eyebrows in surprise then suddenly radiates pride and contentment, even if he’s trying to hide it. John comes out the door in sweatpants and a tee, heading for the mailbox to get the newspaper, drawing their eyes to him. “John’s a liberal too then I presume?”

Tom licks his lips nervously. He’d like to say yes, but it’s the thing about outing somebody else getting in the way. His pause is just a beat too long.

“Really?” Paul says, drawing his own conclusions. “And you’re moving in together? What does his wife have to say about that?”

“Nothing. He’s been divorced from her for two months now.”

“That lying witch! She said they were moving for his work,” Paul spits out, disgusted. 

“So I’ve heard. She’s done a whole lot of lying lately. She’s not one of my top ten favourite people right now.”

John looks up and spots them, raising a hand to wave.

“Hey, Powell, would you come over here for a second?” Paul calls out. John, faintly surprised, shuffles out and around the fence to honour the request. When he comes walking up Paul’s drive way, Paul says “Tom told me you like flowers, is that true?”

“Love them. How so?”

“What about roses?”

“They’re flowers too,” John says with a lopsided grin as he comes to stand beside Tom.

“Got any favourite types of roses?” Paul asks with a little sour twist to his mouth, not appreciating the sarcasm.

“I don’t know, Ebb Tide, or Rhapsody In Blue perhaps?” John answers.

Paul’s sour twist disappears in exchange for a smile. “Ah. A purple kind of guy are you? Want to see mine? I’ve got Ebb Tides out back.”

“If you say no, you’re stupid, and I won’t speak to you for a week,” Tom jokes and gives John a playful shove with his shoulder.

“Hmm… blessed silence or smelling roses… tough choice,” John say stroking a pretend beard thoughtfully. “Just kidding, I’d love to see them, Paul,” he answers with a smile.

“Come on then, we have to go via the kitchen,” Paul says with an excited gleam in his eyes and turns to walk inside his home with a gesture for them to follow.

John gives Tom a covert ‘what is going on?’ look behind Paul’s back, but Tom just smiles and motions for John to follow Paul. So John trails after Paul and Tom keeps an eye of his reaction once he steps into the garden on the backside. “Holy _fuuu_ ― Jesus Christ, Paul!” John’s eyes go wide. “This is amazing! You should compete in this. Is that possible? Or do they only do that in England? Woah! Look at these, Tom! And _these_! And these pink ones would look amazing in a bouquet mixed with yellow lilies, pink alstroemeria, green poms and purple monte casino…”

For forty five minutes Tom watches John and Paul geek out completely over flowers. It’s the most sympathetic Tom has ever experienced Paul. That, despite him knowing that Tom is gay. Tom feels like he fell into a rabbit hole and landed in Wonderland.

“I must say, Paul, you’ve done well for yourself. Better than most, having worked yourself up from total poverty to all this. Not many who starts out with nothing can boast buying a house like this at the age of twenty, then go on to build a nationwide company, and _still_ have time to cultivate a rose garden such as this one,” John says. “I remember in first grade, when you only had goodwill clothes and lived with foster parents.”

Tom is jarred. He didn’t know. All this time, he’d presumed Paul came from the same kind of background as himself, with rich parents and his needs provided for. He knew that Paul had started his own company instead of going to college, but he wasn’t even completely certain what Paul worked with.

Paul seems a bit surprised too, at having his past pointed out. “Yes, it was hard times. Most kids were hellish about it. I think I changed foster care ten times over the years.”

“What happened to your parents?” Tom asks.

“Car crash, when I was an infant.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Paul shrugs. “Parents are overrated. Just look at yours. I saw you slam the door in their face. Judgemental dicks, impossible to please. Good riddance. Your mother used to pluck a flower off my bushes when she came here. Never once did she ask.” He makes a face. “So Tom tells me you two are moving in together. Where are you moving?” Paul asks John.

John throws Tom a holy-shit-you-told-him??? type of look before he smiles politely at Paul. “Maine. I’ve bought a boat, so we’re moving to the coast. Noah is coming to live with us.”

“Good kid, that one. He’s always been very polite and respectful. Which is more than I can say for most of the kids around here. I’ll be sad to see him go. Grace will be missed too. We spoke often while Tom was away during seasons. She always invited me to any get-togethers.” Paul sighs and pushes his glasses up. “I’ll make sure nobody dares speaking badly about you for being liberals.”

“What are you talking about? I’m a republican,” John says.

Tom and Paul share a look and snigger. “John’s more of a conservative liberal, unlike me, who’s solely liberal,” Tom says, making Paul laugh and John look even more confused.

“I see. Well, in that case I’m happy to see you pair off and stop competing for the females, leaving men like me helpless to find anyone,” Paul says.

“Oh. _Ooh_ , you mean liberal, like _liberal_ ,” John says, catching up. Tom and Paul laugh again and Paul nods. “I didn’t think you’d be this accepting about it,” John adds.

“I'm biased. You’re both assholes most of the time, but you always give credit where credit is due.” He looks at Tom. “And I still remember how you kept the worst bullies off my back in school. Stuck up, pious, and a goodie two shoes as you were. You wouldn't give me the time of day, hanging with your popular jock friends, but you still stopped them from picking on me. I never forget a favour nor a slight.”

Tom doesn’t remember that. He remembers Paul as an obnoxious, sexist asshole with a need for attention. 

When they say goodbye to Paul and go back home, they’re quiet until they get inside, both lost in their own heads. Noah’s still in the kitchen, looking at houses on his laptop. There’s coffee in the pot so Tom pours them both a cup and sits down. John sits down, takes the sports pages from the paper but doesn’t read it.

“You never really know a person, do you?” Tom asks.

John shakes his head. “Out of all the people here, I’d judge Paul to be the worst.”

Noah looks up. “What?”

“I told Paul I’m divorcing your mom, and that I’m gay. He just…” Tom shrugs his shoulder with a bewildered look. “He called me a liberal and showed me his rose garden out back, lamenting our move. He’s an orphan, did you know that? I never knew that.”

Noah shakes his head. “No. Maybe mom knows. She used to invite him over for coffee sometimes. She felt bad for him being so lonely. I mostly stayed away. I don’t like him. He brags too much, and is so avid to point out every time he’s done something good.”

“I don’t know. It makes a lot more sense to me now. He just wants to be admired, I suppose. He said something about giving credit where credit is due. Grace always mentioned him in every thank you speech she gave, when she’d done a charity roundup. And I think every compliment we gave, opened him up more to us.”

“Yes, but if he’s been bullied and moved from foster care to foster care… and you remember how nobody would pick him for their team in PE, because he had asthma or something like that? No wonder he’s desperate for positive attention. You and me, we’ve always had people admiring us,” John points out.

Tom sips his coffee thoughtfully. “Now I just feel bad for all the times we’ve poked fun of him. He said he’s never going back to the old church. I never expected him to convert for real. And his rose garden? Holy shit, that was amazing!”

“If all the people he likes and admires himself, converts, why would he want to go back? I don’t think it’s strange at all. I’m sure he’s been envying your athleticism since always. If you all the sudden gave him admiration for one of his talents, that probably has been criticised for being unmanly, then it’s not odd if he eats out of your hands,” Noah says. “Enough of that. How about this house?” He turns the laptop over, impatiently declaring the topic of their neighbour done with.

Tom chuckles and leans over to look at the listing along with John, but he’ll dwell on Paul and Paul’s past for several days, wondering if Noah nit the nail. Maybe Paul just wanted to be seen, and be seen by the right people. He does find himself chuckling at odd moments at the term ‘liberal’. Sometimes people surprise you.

* * *


	51. The First Night Home- Breaking The Curse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to publish this one. O.o Sorry about that. *cough, cough*
> 
> Anyway, I've had a visitor from the States! :D A fellow fan and fanfic writer. I truly enjoyed getting to geek out over SPN with someone IRL.
> 
> Also, I'm exhausted and a suffering from a cold. Apparently, being off from work for 2 months, then go back to work, being surrounded by sick people, takes a toll both physically and mentally. :P
> 
> I'm fairly certain our house is currently visited by an unfriendly ghost too. But that's another story.

* * *

## June , 2015

Three days later Jessi still has her phone turned off. The house is already on the market, the divorce papers are modified, sent to Grace with Tom’s signature, returned with her signature, and left to court. The three of them are busy packing, and tomorrow they’re flying to Maine to look at houses. Tom’s getting worried about Jessi. Juss had replied to his text, saying he’s busy, but will be in touch within a few days. Tom sends another text, this time asking about Jessi. If anyone knows, it’s Juss.

Justin calls him back within minutes. “Jess is on a cruise. Won’t be home for a couple of days. Don’t worry about her.”

“Thanks. Easier said than done, not worrying.”

“I heard about the divorce. Kudos to you for the wording when you came out to mom. She’s real broken up about it, but she told me what you said and I think you handled it fucking fantastically.”

“Thank you. When did you speak to Grace?”

Justin chuckles. “She’s here. Crashing on my couch while she’s home hunting. She’s going to move here and go to a community college nearby.”

“Really? That’s great! What about Perry? If she doesn’t know…”

“Dude, she showed up unannounced while he was in my bed,” Justin says with a chuckle. “It went well. Two days ago we went to dinner, all three of us. Perry and she… they don’t exactly click. But it’s not because I’m bi and he’s gay. It’s a personality thing.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Yeah... I discovered a side of him I don’t like. He’s _jealous_ of her. Even knowing she’s my mom. Several times he tried to, I don’t know, put her down? Making it out as if she isn’t as awesome as she is, because she has no college degree and has been a stay at home mom. Mom didn’t take it, neither do I. Told him he could keep away until he can show mom the respect she deserves. He hadn’t made any outright demeaning statements, just things you had to read between the lines to see. So when I called him out on it, he denied that’s what he had meant, and we had a fight. Haven’t talked to him since.”

“Shit. I’m sorry.”

“Mhm… maybe I’m not as in love with him as I thought I was. I don’t miss him as much as I used to when we were apart before. I don’t know. I’m not folding on this. If he still wants me, he’ll have to call me, not the other way around. I had to go through a lot of shit to get you as my family, and I’m not letting go of that,for any guy or girl.”

“I can’t blame you. I’ve chosen family over love many times in my life.”

“One shouldn’t have to choose.”

“No. Noah responded with guilt when I came out to him. Poor baby. But he’s completely cool with me and John as a couple. He isn’t even bothered by light PDA. When I asked him about it, he said that we don’t have the vibes of wrong, that me and Grace used to have.” Tom shakes his head in wonder even though Juss can’t see it.

“Yeah. Noe told me he felt really bad about all that crap he’d been spouting before. I told him to forget about it. Here and now, right? Noe is fucking awesome. I miss him like hell. More than I miss Perry right now, if I’m honest. I promised I’d come visit once you’ve moved.”

“I need you to come look at stuff to see if there’s anything you want before we give it away to goodwill.”

“Don’t want anything. And honestly, if you’d come here now you’d see that I don’t have _any_ space to spare. If you don’t have a room to spare for me, just pack my stuff and put it in storage until I can get a bigger apartment. Jessi won’t have time to come down and pick out stuff either. She’s got work for the summer...”

They talk for another hour. Chatting with Juss is easy and fun, and his worries about both Grace and Jessi are put to rest. John comes down in the den while they’re talking, and Tom gets to experience John’s jealousy for the first time. He doesn’t ask Tom to stop talking or anything limiting like that. He simply tells Tom to say hello from him, then starts peppering him with distracting kisses and go down on his knees to give Tom a teasing blowjob while he talks. It’s a thing Tom has done many times in his days, teasing his lovers while they’re on the phone. It’s really hard to concentrate, and coming silently is _not_ easy. Just to get John back he pulls him off just as he comes, only to unload in his face. He hangs up a few minutes later, and laughs, as John’s rubbing his face against his pants to dry off.

“You little shit. Now look at the mess you made,” Tom scolds with a grin, tucking himself in.

John sniggers. “The mess _I_ made?” he protests mock indignantly. “I’m pretty sure you’re the one who made a mess.”

The whole thing escalates to a short wrestling match that leads to a long and heated makeout session on the floor, where John ends up lying on top of Tom, grinding down on him with feverish eyes. Tom starts pulling John’s shirt up, aiming to get him naked, when a loud throat clearing sound makes them both stop and turn their heads towards the stairs.

Noah’s sitting halfway down the stairs, chin rested in the palm of his hand, so-done-with-your-shit expression on his face, watching them.

John scrambles off Tom, sits on the floor and pulls his knees up to hide his boner, getting red in the face. 

“How long have you been there?” Tom asks self consciously, and sits up, deciding hiding his boner would be fruitless and wouldn’t fool Noah anyway.

Noah looks at his wrist watch. “Five minutes and forty one, forty two, forty three seconds.”

“And you just sat down to watch? Boy, that’s not natural to do when you walk in on your dad,” John says with a frown.

“I was just wondering how long you’d be at it before you remembered you’d left me to do all the packing by myself,” Noah deadpans dryly. “I figured if you’re having a break, I deserved one too. But I’m not of a mind to watch anything explicit. So get your lazy asses up here to help,” he says, gets up and turns to disappear up the stairs.

Tom grins. John shakes his head. “I swear, that son of yours…”

“I know. Now come on and let’s go to work, or he’ll send us to our room without dinner. And don’t think he won’t.”

* * *

“You are mad! You are utterly mad! You just don’t buy a house for 2.6 mil like that!” John would be much more convincing if he wasn’t grinning like a maniac. It’s the third house they’d looked at. The house had _everything_ they’d been looking for, and some things they hadn’t been looking for, but knew they needed once they saw it. A separate cottage for Noah, with all amenities, four bedrooms in the main house - two on each floor, along with two smaller rooms they deemed good for offices or hobby rooms. Tom suggested making one room Justin’s, since he’d asked, one Jessi’s if she wanted it, and the spare bedroom upstairs could be used by any guests. (Possibly Jessi’s room too, depending on if she wanted a room in the house or not. She’s an adult, after all.) Airy kitchen with enough space to place a dining room table in, a living room, a smaller sitting room upstairs with an entrance to a balcony. A luxurious bathroom en suite to the master bedroom. Three toilets with showers, two downstairs and one upstairs. A beautiful deck, private beach, a private deep water dock with a float at the end. A laundry room and a garage for two cars, along with a carport by the cottage. A glassed in deck and a huge lot of land, even if only a part of it was converted to a garden. It had privacy and magnificent view on all sides. 

The place had been surveyed and was newly renovated. It’s not the house Tom had seen John adapt to a wheelchair in his dreams, but then again, it was just a dream, wasn’t it? It had stayed with Tom when they looked at houses. This house had almost no thresholds, the doors were wide, and the stairs looked fairly easy to install a wheelchair lift in. There were three steps leading to the deck with the front door, but there were two stairs, one towards the cottage and one right in front. A ramp could easily be placed on one of them, should need arise. All these thoughts Tom kept to himself. No need to worry the others. At least John wouldn’t have to work so hard to adapt the house if it ever came to that.

The backside was the need for cosmetic renovations, as everything had ugly colours.

“We needed to buy it asap to make sure it will be done by the time we’re ready to move. Now come on. Let’s go shop for new doors for the cabinets and new wallpaper,” Tom says with a content smile.

“Dibs on driving!” Noah chimes in. Each of them had fallen in love with different parts of the house. Noah loved the cottage. It was just a big room with a kitchenette and a bathroom. Not much, but it’d be his and he could live there undisturbed for as long as he wanted. John had fallen in love with the balcony and the ocean view from the two sides of floor to ceiling windows in the master bedroom. He’d stood staring for so long Tom had to come get him to look at the rest of the house. Tom fell in love with the kitchen. He could see himself cook and entertain guests or just John or/and Noah in there. It had an island in the middle with a stove top, so you could face the dinner table while cooking. It was _perfect_. Now all they had to do was get rid of all the yellows, browns, pinks, and dark reds in the house.

Tom’s feeling nothing but excitement. Not even a trace of anxiety. While they’re here the realtor would show their house to two families. Maybe they’ll sell fast too? If not, well they can afford not to.

The three of them pick out wallpaper together. They’re all agreeing on light, creamy colours. That way you can change the look of the house with paintings, pillows, furniture, rugs, and so on, however often you want without high costs. They have a slight disagreement about the kitchen, but Tom argues he’ll be the one cooking the most and wins. They settle on white with beautiful stained glass motives on the top cabinets, and all white down below. They hire a local firm to change the wallpaper and paint, and go straight back to install the cabinet doors themselves. The excitement of buying something new gives them the energy. They sleep in a hotel and explore town after that, then makes one last visit to the house, just to find the contactor hard at work, before flying back home.

They’ve been in Maine for one week, and Jessi still won’t answer her phone. This time, the signal goes through, but no Jessi. Tom puts it out of his mind and goes back to packing. Grace’s stuff is sent to her, and the rest is packed in ‘keep + room’ or ‘storage’ boxes. Jessi’s stuff is marked with ‘Jessi storage’ since they don’t know if she wants a room. John makes another flight to Maine, declares the house finished, and applies for a transfer to the local office. A moving company is hired to transport their stuff to Maine. A court date for the final divorce hearing is set. They get a bid on the house that Tom declines. It’s a stressful but positive time. Tom’s caught up in a bliss, falling asleep and waking up beside John, preparing for having their own home together. 

Sometimes, when he tries to call Jessi, and she doesn’t answer, the anxiety comes back. He shoves the worry into a deep corner of his mind and focuses on the tasks at hand. Neda and David helps a lot with the heavy lifting. They hire a storage space in Maine and sends the things there, Noah goes along to handle it. Tom hires a cleaning company to clean out their old house. Paul offers to cut the grass until the house is sold. ‘Just so the cheap bastards don’t use an untidy lawn as a reason to haggle about the price, and lower the property value for the rest of us.’ Tom is grateful. They get two more bids on the house, both lower than the asking price, that Tom declines. John, Noah, and Tom each take a car to drive to Maine. This time, Tom will only be coming back to Pine Glen for the final hearing and for the house sale.

The drive takes about 47 hours according to Google maps, but it takes them almost double that, with frequent stops and three hotel stays. It'd be an even greater trip if they were all in the same car. As it is, Noah, driving in front of John and Tom, keeps leaving the road to sightsee. They follow him of course, having a blast, keeping company through phone. 

When they finally arrive to their new home, Neda’s already there, waiting for them at the deck, munching on… Tom's not sure what she's eating, but he's convinced it isn’t meant for human consumption. “Took you long enough,” she remarks. 

“What are you doing here?” John asks. 

“Soon, helping you move the desk from upstairs, when Tom discovers he rather have it downstairs. He'll be too stubborn or too proud to admit his leg won't hold for it.”

Noah isn’t too picky about why Neda’s here. He goes straight for a hug. “Great to see you. You’re helping us unpack?”

“Of course.”

The house looks a hundred times better with the new wallpaper. Though it's eerily empty even with all the boxes and furniture. Tom begins unpacking the kitchen, Noah in his cottage, and Neda… Tom's not sure where Neda is. They all keep a notebook with them to write stuff that needs to be bought as they go. They work fast. When Tom's almost done, Noah comes into the kitchen. “I need stuff for my kitchenette. We got any spare stuff?”

“Your mom took most of the things we actually used. So we've got only a few pots and one pan. We'll need to buy more. We're stuck with the china and silverware we used for special occasions, which I personally hate, but you can take a couple of everything. We'll go shopping later. You need a microwave, right? Also, I never use the water boiler, so you can take it. If you want different china and utensils than we have, write it down. Unless John loves these, they’re going to goodwill.”

“Why did you buy it if you dislike it so much? Mom hates them too.” Noah pulls down four of everything and puts it in an empty box. He opens a drawer, finds a spare pair of scissors and holds it up. Tom nods and packs the water boiler for Noah. 

“We didn’t. They were wedding gifts from our parents. You need this?”

“Don’t you pick out what you want when you get married? And people can choose what they buy from that list? Yeah, yeah. Sure. Put it in the box.”

“We did, but apparently it wasn’t fancy enough for our parents.”

“Pfft. Didn’t they know you? Neither of you ever go for the most expensive stuff unless it makes a difference in quality.”

“Neither do they, but all your grandparents seemed to consider us some kind of show objects. There’s a difference between buying needlessly expensive things as gifts, and buying it for oneself.”

“I guess. I'd call this house needlessly expensive, except I love it and might never want to move.”

“There you have it, son. If that’s how you feel about a home, it wasn't too expensive. Do you need this?”

“Dad. When would I ever need a fondue set?”

“About as often as I need it?”

“Fondue is great though. We should have a fondue evening once a month. The person who drops the first piece in the pot has to host the next time.”

“Good idea.”

“Hey, why are you putting it in my box?”

“Champ, I never drop anything in the pot.”

“No, but John might. And you'll have to host the first time to show us how it's done.”

“Alright. You win. Do you need a strainer?”

“Yeah. Where’s Neda?”

“I don’t know. Go through and check what else you might need and I'll go find her.”

“Him.”

Tom finds Neda in Justin’s room, lying on his bed. The room is completely unpacked, stuff put up on the walls and everything. It looks _exactly_ as it did in the old house, just a lot more spacious. “Shit, girl. You just snapped your fingers, didn't you?”

Neda sniggers. “Perhaps.”

“Why didn’t you come find us when you were done? I never took you for being lazy.”

“I would, if you were home alone. But there’s two people here that, while sober, aren't ready to face what I am without a complete brain melt.”

Tom looks around again. “They still might have one. This is just uncanny. Could you at least get some things rearranged to be wrong?”

Neda frowns in discontent. “Is this not impressive?”

“It is. Uncomfortably so.”

Neda makes a discontent noise, then, between one blink and another, everything is suddenly slightly out of place. “Better?”

“Much. Don’t worry. It’s still eerily impressive.”

“Good.”

“You want a room of your own?”

“What for?”

“To sleep in.”

“I don’t sleep.”

“To dwell in while we sleep then? So you don't have to leave.”

“Who says I leave?” Neda smirks. “I'm always around, whether you see me or not.”

“Even when we―“

“―pick your noses, excrete, and pleasure yourselves or someone else, yes. Is it time to move the desk already? I thought I still had to wait twenty minutes.”

Tom’s pretty damn convinced Neda says things like this just to show off. For someone as powerful as her, she sure liked to be admired by lowly humans. 

Neda sits up and smacks her lips in vexation. “Don’t try to tell me you don’t enjoy admiration from people far beneath you in capacity, child.”

“I―“ 

Not giving Tom any time to answer, Neda snaps her fin― 

His body is burning from strain, mind sharp and focused. The whole ice hall is vibrating with the chant of the supporters - “ _Rains-bo-rough, Rains-bo-rough, Rains-bo-rough_ …” He’s flying forward on the ice, dangling the puck and leaving the defenders in the dust. He pulls back his stick and shoots. For a second, time stands still 

Then

The roar of the supporters nearly drowns out the goal signal. Tom fist pumps and skates towards the board, wanting to get there before his teammates catch up to him. In the front row there's a little girl, six or seven perhaps, who looks like she has some kind of mental syndrome. She's wearing a jersey with his name. He pats the glass in front of her. “That one was for you, little girl,” he calls out, grinning at her. She’s laughing and clapping in delight. Her father beaming at Tom along with her.

The next moment a teammate thunders into him, propelling him away from the board, then another, and another, piling in for a hug. 

He’s riding high, flying, soaring. This is his purpose in life. This is what makes it all worth it. 

_Thank you Lord, for allowing me to have this._

Later, when they’re leaving, having showered and gotten changed, he spots the girl and father in the parking lot. The air is cold and crisp, smelling of snow and exhaust fumes. His whole body’s aches, and his cheekbone is pounding from taking an elbow, but it's all good pains. “Guys, excuse me for a minute. There’s someone I need to say hello to,” he tells his teammates, then jogs up the father and child. 

“Tammah!” the little girl squeals and reaches her arms out for him when he gets close.

Her father holds her back. “Yes, Sweetie, that's _Thomas_ Rainsborough.”

“Hi. Did you enjoy the game?” Tom greets them.

“Very much, Sir. Thank you for what you did. She’s a big fan. But she can’t speak very well.”

Tom goes down on a knee in front of the girl, who’s still reaching for him. “Hi. What’s your name?”

“Mahyah.”

“Maria. Her name is Maria,” her dad corrects with an apologetic smile.

Tom smiles broadly at the girl. “Maria, you know what? The goal I did, I did it especially for you.”

Maria laughs. Her eyes are spaced too tight and her teeth aren’t growing right. She’ll never be a beauty queen, but her unadulterated joy might be amongst the most beautiful things in life.

“That’s nice of you to say,” her dad says.

Tom looks up at the father and directs his smile towards him. “It’s not a lie. I perform my best if I'm trying to impress someone. Unless I have someone special to me in the audience, like my children, or wife,” _or boyfriend_ “I try to single out someone special to play for,” he explains to the dad, then looks back at Maria, pointing at her. “And tonight, it was you.”

It’s unclear if the dad lets go, or if Maria struggles loose, but he suddenly finds himself with an armful of little girl. She smells like artificial strawberries. He laughs and lifts her up. 

“Can I take a picture of you two?” her dad asks.

The girl is beaming so brightly at him, like this is the biggest moment in her life, and his heart swells with pride inside his chest. This is his purpose in life. It’s amazing that by doing what he loves doing, he can make other people this happy. Like this little girl. There’s something preventing her from mentally developing. She’s caught in a mental age of someone much younger―possibly forever―and yet, he puts that shine of awed joy on her face―

“See? Why wouldn’t I enjoy striking awe in you? That girl’s most amazing feat, in comparison, is at this point forming sentences with three words, and sorting stuff in perfect colour order. And yet…” Neda leans close and fans out her hand over his chest, right above the proud, self-satisfied warm glow. She smirks lopsidedly, mischief in the hazel eyes of her vessel. 

Tom’s reeling from being yanked back and forth in time. He can still feel the aches from the game, the cold bite of the weather in his cheeks, and smell the strawberry shampoo from the girl. But he’s standing back in Justin’s new room. With the warm hand of an angel burning through the fabric of his shirt, pointing out his vainglory, putting a spotlight on his sin.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Tom. Who says it's such a sin to love what you do, and enjoy being acknowledged for being good at it? You never forgot that the Lord is above you. In fact, you prayed the most when you were at the peak of your career. What’s the difference between us?”

Tom steps closer, turns his head to talk directly into the ear of the angel. Almost a threat, though delivered as a flirtation. “The difference is that every time you do these things I'm tempted to forget about God and worship only _you_. And you _want_ that.”

Neda disappears. 

Gone from one beat to another. 

Tom’s left with a rapidly beating heart, suddenly afraid that Neda will never be back. “I'm sorry, I didn’t mean that,” he tells the empty room.

_Please come back! I'm sorry! Of course I'd never forget God is above you! Neither would you. I'm sorry!_

No answer. 

_Shit, shit, shit!_

He turns around and opens the door. Panicked that he’s chased off the angel helping Noah in his mission. What if she's never coming back? He doesn’t even know where the thought came from. He'd never felt tempted to pray to, and honour only Neda. Had he? 

_Have I?_

Maybe she’s just hiding somewhere on the grounds. He intends to scour the house for her but John calls out from above. “Tom, you got a minute?”

“On my way.” He’s torn, but he'll find Neda afterwards. 

Hopefully. 

He hurries upstairs, a pang of pain shoots through his leg and he stumbles, but grabs the bannister in time not to fall. He stops and carefully takes another step upward. This time there’s no pain. 

_Just a temporary thing. Don’t worry about it._

He’s scurries the rest of the stairs holding onto the bannisters. No more pangs of pain this time. No malfunctioning.

_Just stress, that’s all._

John’s waiting in the corridor upstairs, smiling broadly at him. “Come check out our bedroom,” he says. But when Tom within arms reach he grabs Tom, pushes him against the wall, and kisses him instead, grinding them together. 

“Wasn’t I… _mph_ ….supposed to… _Mmh_ ….check out the bedroom?” Tom answers between kisses, trying to keep his goal of finding Neda fresh in mind. 

“Baby, I start working again in three days. I need to get as much as I can out of my free time,” John purrs. “And I need a little reward for the effort I've put in today.”

Tom has his arms around John’s neck, keeping him close. There’s still that unreal feeling, like this can’t be true. John had done two big ‘never happens’ for him. Turned from straight to bi, _and_ left his wife. 

It’s huge. 

Even if you argued that he'd always been bi and just hadn’t realised it, or that he'd had hated his wife, there was a lot of indoctrination to overcome. 

Frankly, if it wasn’t for Noah’s calling, and how suicidal he himself had been, Tom would never have taken the step to leave Grace. If it wasn't for the reignited wave of homophobia in the wake of the Croatoan, he'd never have snapped and slammed the door on his parents. If John had gone through the same process in normal conditions, made the same demands, he'd turned John down no matter how in love he was―just like he'd turned Stefan and Sam down.

He owes his happiness to the God damned _plague_. 

“I'll reward you later, honey. I might even let you top if you handle your cards right.”

John pushes himself away from him, far enough to look him him square in the eyes, hands planted on the wall on either side of him. His lips, wet from kissing, are parted, eyes intense and feverish. “You serious?” he asks, voice low and rough.

Tom grabs his hips and pulls them back flush down there, while leaning back to keep the distance between their faces. He nods, keeping their gazes locked. 

“Tommy, baby, you don't have to,” John says, voice husky. His words may say that, but his eyes tells another story. 

Tom pulls him flush again, forcing them cheek to cheek. “I've fantasised about it. About feeling you deep inside of me.” He nibbles on John’s earlobe, causing a shiver and almost shivering himself from John’s rushed exhale. “I think of it every time you're on top of me, every time you almost slip inside. I want you. And I trust you.” He drags his teeth and tongue along John’s neck the way he knows gets him going. Sure enough, John gasps, moves his hands to Tom's ass and squeezes. “But later. _If_ you behave.”

John makes a frustrated noise and steps away from him. “Alright, alright. I’m good. I'll be good,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender, tenting his pants visibly. Tom gives him a shit eating grin. “You’re a tease,” John complains. 

“No, honey, I just got better self control than you give me credit for. And we got a lot of work to do. Now, show me how far you've gotten.”

John takes his hand and leads him to the master bedroom. It's got windows facing the beach, and to another side, facing the cottage. It’s high up enough that you can’t see into it from the ground, or he'd have misgivings about making love in here without the still uninstalled curtains. He definitely wouldn’t want to put on a show for his son. As it is, you’d be able to see them if you’re at sea or on the dock, but it's too far away to make much out.

John is finished unpacking the bedroom. The bed is made, the nightstands and lamps are up. John shows him their clothes in the walk in closet, John’s clothes and shoes to the left and his to the right. The sheets and bedding is placed in one of the built-in wardrobes, towels in the other, the third one is still empty. The rug is laid out. The en suite bathroom has all their hygiene products unpacked, towels hanging on the heated towel rail.

“You like it?”

“For now. We'll get the right bed and nightstands in time. And large curtains. But I love the room.”

“Are you kidding me, baby? For this view, I'd sleep on the floor. Come on. I planned starting unpacking one of the offices too. I need a second opinion, since it's going to be yours. How do you want the furniture?”

Tom trails after him to the smaller room. He stops in the doorway and stares at the desk by the window. Sometimes when you plan something it seems so much better in your head, but when you see it in reality it's not as great as you thought. This is like that. He imagines himself sitting there, by his computer and it just feels _wrong_. “I've changed my mind. I want the downstairs office instead,” he says, a bit irked that Neda had known, and a bit worried.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“But it’s got no windows.”

“That’s why I want it.”

John watches him skeptically. “You’re not just saying that because you know I like the view? Because you're going to be at home a lot more than me, so you should have the bes―“

Tom silence him with a finger to his lips, chuckles and shakes his head. “No, Johnny boy. I don’t get a feel for this room. I _want_ the downstairs office.”

“If you say so.” John doesn’t look convinced, but Tom also knows he wants this office for himself, so he isn’t arguing. “Let’s get this stuff downstairs then.”

Tom takes point, carrying the desk down the corridor. It’s foolish and puts him as the one backing down the stairs, while John carries the tail end of the desk. He remembers both Neda’s warning and the pang of pain going up. 

_It'll be alright. Don’t worry about it. Neda’s just being dramatic_ , Tom thinks and starts walking down the stairs. 

Suddenly he’s forcefully shoved aside, losing his grip on the desk and slamming into the bannister. “Dramatic am I?” Neda growls, having caught the desk without losing a beat. “I should have let you carry it downstairs yourself, _then_ you'd see how dramatic things would get.”

Tom’s heart is beating hard from the scare. He pushes himself past Neda, down the stairs, walking just in front of her. She turns with him, glaring, holding onto the desk with only one hand, sauntering after him like carrying a desk is nothing. 

“If you hadn't run off faced with the truth, I never would have thought of you like a drama llama,” Tom snipes.

“Why did you even utter such a blasphemy? You haven't even acknowledged that thought to yourself before. Have you no filter _at all_? Would it kill you to stop and think before you open your mouth?”

“I told the truth, girl. You couldn’t fucking handle it? What level of bullshit is that?”

“ _Whoa, whoa!_ Guys! Could you maybe not argue while we're carrying furni― Neda not so fast, dammit!” John says, voice strained and stressed. 

None of them pay him any mind, apart from Tom putting a hand on Neda’s chest to slow her down. 

“It’s _not_ true. I am a manifestation of the Lord’s power. I do _not_ wish to bereave Him of his worshippers. A prayer to me isn’t blasphemous. Claiming I want it all to myself _is_.”

“GUYS!”

Tom turns and stomps the rest of the way, holding onto the bannisters. He can feel his knee wobble, threatening to lock up. It probably would have if he’d been under the strain of carrying instead of supporting himself. 

_Are your superiors listening in? Don't they know how loyal you are? What difference does it make if I say it out loud? Can't they read my mind anyway? Can't they read yours?_

Neda doesn’t answer, just glares at him. He glares back. 

_Jesus Christ! I'm arguing with an angel of the Lord about the state of our relationship._

It’s absurd. 

The only reason he can think of, for both of them to be upset right now, is that he touched on a truth.

_Dear Lord, creator of all. Forgive me for being too awed by, and not respectful enough towards one of your angels. Don’t believe any of what I said. I know my place far beneath you both and I feel honoured beyond words getting to experience the awesome power and proof of your existence. I overstep my bounds, not wanting to lose that. Forgive me my flawed human nature, my greed, and my―_

# QUIET! 

Neda’s voice booms so loud in his mind it nearly blackens him out. He doesn’t keel over, even if it feels like it. Instead he freezes up at the bottom of the stairs, devoid of any thoughts at all, lost in the ringing sound in his ears. 

“Dad. Can we go shopping for our kitchens? Dad? _Dad?_ Are you alright?”

Tom blinks, coming back to himself, one scrambled, broken thought at a time. Noah’s holding his upper arm and gazing into his face with a worried frown. John, Neda, and the desk is nowhere to be seen. “Um…”

He has no idea how long he’s been standing there. The ringing is gone, the light is different, so it's later in the day.

_What happened?_ he asks Neda, afraid she won’t answer.

_I switched you off._

It’s a relief to hear her calm voice in his head, no longer angry. _Why?_

No answer. 

_What did John say when I just stopped?_ Neda’s the one claiming they’re not ready to face what she is. But she’s also the least discreet about it. The argument must have caused John to wonder, and after the incident when Tom had fainted by his car, John would most likely be wary of weird behaviour.

_He saw you storm off. I shielded you from his eyes._

Right. Neda would be able to alter how John experiences the world. So what does Neda want him to do now?

_Can I go to the store with Noah?_

_Go. I've put the lists you all have written this far, in your pocket._

“I'm fine, son. Just spaced out for a minute. Let’s go.”

* * *

Tom wonders what really happened to freak Neda out. He doesn’t ask, sure no answer is forthcoming. And why would a divine being offer answers to a lowly mortal? It’s unsettling, but Neda’s sticking around, which is the important part.

A couple of hours later, nothing of that matters anymore. It’s dark outside. The ocean glitters in the moonlight, lanterns at the end of the dock reflects in the waves. Only one of the lamps on the nightstands is lit, making Tom and John reflect in the window glass at the same time as it isn’t too bright to block out the view.

“You’re _mine_ ,” Tom whispers in John’s ear. He’s clinging to John’s neck, back pressed against the cold glass of the window facing the beach, legs wrapped around John’s midriff, and John’s strong hands gripping his ass, holding him up. 

“ _You_ , are mine,” John replies darkly, panting into the skin of his shoulder, rubbing his cock up against Tom's hole. Gliding in a bit and out again with every grinding motion. Tom’s prepped and ready to take him. 

“I'll never let you go.” More than ready. Tom’s gagging for it. It’s a mental buildup, starting from the moment on the boat when John had partially slipped in. He wants it, but not to degrade himself, nor to confirm his worthlessness. In hindsight, he’s so glad nobody ever was amenable when he went to the club to look for someone to top. 

“I'll never let you let me go,” John answers. The window's going to need a wash or there'll be a big telltale imprint of Tom’s naked back there. They’re both sweaty. This started in the shower, washing off the grime of today's hard work. They were both sore and exhausted, but once things started heating up, the exhaustion evaporated into _need_. 

“I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“Sap,” Tom calls him jokingly. He’s the sappier one of them, they both know that.

“Tease,” John counters.

“Come inside of me, John. I want you in me, come on, honey. Take what's yours…” Tom husks into his ear. He counts himself lucky that John’s in advanced placement, sexually. Strong, creative, as willing to make love out of the bed as in it, like now. Face to face sex against a glass wall.

“ _Fuck!_ ” John bends his neck, resting his forehead on Tom’s shoulder. His breathing rough. Tom wonders if he could get John to come just by saying the right things. Confirming that they belong together, ‘own’ each other, goes a long way to turn both of them on. Tom turns his head and bites John at the base of the skull, uncaring of the hair in his mouth. “God! Just like that,” John pants and grabs his cock in hand, guiding himself inside, pushing in slowly, slower than necessary. Tom’s relaxed and wanting. He’s so turned on, so full of love and trusting John completely not to say something that will fling him back in time, to a dark place.

* * *

Tom wakes up with John sleeping on his chest, snoring softly. His ass throbs comfortably, reminding him that he bottomed yesterday without triggering. No flashbacks, no shame. His heart feels too big for his chest when he looks down on the mop of dark curls. He shakes John. “Darling, wake up.”

John grunts when he’s shook again, he lifts his head to look at Tom with a sleepy, annoyed squint. “Wht?”

Tom smiles warmly. “You can go back to sleep if you want. I just wanted to give you a chance to see this,” he says and gestures towards the window. 

John turns his head and squints at the bright scene―the sun rising in the direction of the cottage, paintings the sky and ocean in golds and pinks, chasing away indigo and purples in the other direction. He crawls up and turns so he can watch while resting his head on Tom’s shoulder, lacing his fingers together with Tom’s. 

They lay watching dawn in silence. Tom almost thinks John’s fallen back to sleep. When he looks down John’s eyes are open, trained on the view, and he’s smiling softly. Once morning has broken he looks up and meets Tom's gaze. “You know, I don’t think I’ve had this with anyone I've been involved with romantically before.”

Tom raises an eyebrow, silently asking him to explain. 

“Tranquil happiness, while both are awake. Not even with Cathy, back when we were still in love. I only ever got this feeling when she was asleep. She was very high energy, you know?”

“Nothing wrong with flaming passion.”

John chuckles. “No. Of course not. And we had that. I think I couldn't appreciate tranquillity when I was younger. That’s something that came with age.”

“I was the opposite. I've often sought stillness and taken refuge in prayers and contemplation. Even as a small child.”

“Sounds like you.” 

“Mh. I need to go to the bathroom. Be right back.”

When both of them have been to the bathroom and are back in bed, John spooning Tom, John asks “Are you alright still?” and runs a hand over Tom's ass cheek, grazing his hole lightly with a finger. 

“I'm fine. I think we're safe to keep switching. As long as you don't veer off into the wrong kind of dirty talk.”

“You only trigger when someone fucks you? Or the wrong kind of talk in general?”

“Only ever while bottoming. You can call me whatever gay slur you like as long as I'm not―“

“Jesus, baby. I don’t do that.”

“I’ve noticed.”

John chuckles. “Besides, being with you kills a third of my usual dirty talk. It would be like making fun of myself.” 

“How so?”

“ _Yeah, baby, take that big dick,_ ” John says, snickering. “Not exactly convincing while _you_ have a baseball bat between your legs.”

“I feel a bit silly saying things like that unless it turns my partner on. I've also been with too many size queens, and I hate it. I hate when they get so into my dick because I'm big, that they forget I'm attached to it. They pick me up because I'm big, then go nuts when they figure out I grow. It’s nothing but trouble. I can rarely let myself go because it'll hurt most. I don’t get why every guy seems to wish to be bigger.”

“Give me some time and I'll manage to take all of you.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

John grabs Tom’s dick and grinds himself against his ass. “I know you didn't, baby. But, babe, I want you to spear me on your dick. I want you to slam into me so hard we both white out. I want you…” John husks filth into his ear and it doesn't take long for Tom to be so turned on he's the one gagging for John to do all those things to him. 

John does. 

Afterwards, when they've gotten cleaned up and lay spooning in bed again, increasingly drowsy, John asks “Don’t you ever say no?” and nuzzles him.

“No.”

Both of them giggle. 

John runs his hand down to his ass and spreads his cheeks, rubbing against him. Tom arches his back, pushing his ass towards him, feeling John’s dick growing. 

“I'm serious, babe.”

“Of course I say no. At inopportune moments, like in Grand Central Station. At home, in bed, not so much.”

“But are you always up for it? You're not just giving in to be nice, are you?”

Tom tssks. “Does it seem like it? Feel my cock, honey. Does it feel like it's being nice?”

Tom feels John’s smile against his skin. “No. I consider myself a very lucky man.”

“I keep expecting you to freak out about having sex with a man,” Tom admits. 

“Mhm. Honestly, so do I. When I think about it, it feels like it should be weird, but it isn’t. And I feel smug about bagging myself a hockey pro.”

Tom grins and half turns his head towards John. “I'm no longer a hockey pro.”

“Once a Champ, always a Champ.”

“That’s boxing.”

“Semantics. I read the sports pages and watch the sports news on TV. I've seen your feats. Nobody can undo them.”

“The angels can.”

“Sure, they can, baby. Sure, they can,” John says with amusement and grinds himself against Tom's ass, jerking him off with slow movements. 

Tom chortles. “Shit. You good for another go already?”

“Mmmmhm,” John answers, kissing his neck and shoulder. 

“Then grab the lube and let me feel that big cock of yours inside of me. Make me walk like a cowboy all day, honey,” Tom says with a smirk, careful not to sound sarcastic. As amused and lighthearted as John had sounded when talking about it, it’s nothing to make light of. John may be a lot more self-conscious and intimidated by Tom’s size than he lets on. Dicks are a sensitive matter for a man.

John’s pleased purring thrills him. 

He’ll be sore for sure after this night and morning, but it’s worth it. He’s finally able to bottom again without fear, like he had with Stefan. It took trust, love, the right time, the right place, the right mindset, and religious revolution. But the curse is finally broken. If John wants to have his dick praised for its size, then Tom is more than willing to give him that in return for setting him free...

* * *


	52. The First Night Home - Clarity

“That’s an interesting mix of feelings you've got going on there,” Neda says, strolls to Noah’s side and sits down. 

Noah takes another hit on his joint, holding his breath to make sure he gets the full calming rush of the drug. It makes him relaxed, heavy, slightly nauseous, and in a better mood. Everything is more bearable when he’s dulled out. He holds the joint out to Neda.

“I've already tried smoking a cigarette once,” Neda replies to the silent offer. 

Noah chuckles, forcing him to exhale the smoke in amused puffs. “It’s not a cigarette, dumbass. It’s weed. Take a hit.”

Neda squints curiously at the blunt before taking it and inhaling deeply. 

“Hold your breath for as long as you can for the best effect,” Noah instructs and turns his head back to watch the view. The air smells of the sea, spruce, pine and cedar. The stars and moon are amazing above, crickets are chirping, the sea is glittering to his left, and his erection is digging into his zipper. He’s stoned enough not to care that Neda can see his arousal, but not wasted enough not to be ashamed and embarrassed, nor to dare adjust himself. Before Neda arrived he had considered jerking off. Debating to himself how disgusting it would be to do so. They still hadn’t gotten internet installed. If he watched the clip of himself kissing his brother one more time he might go mad for real. This is what he’s stuck with. As gross and nauseating as it it, it’s also disturbingly arousing. Like watching a car crash of another sort, you can’t look away. Except he can’t stomach a car crash. But this? Or that clip Justin had shown him of Jessi with that girl? He doesn’t get it. His mind goes ‘ _Ew. Gross._ ’ then ‘ _Shit. Show me more. This is hot._ ’ Maybe it’s envy?

“I wonder how many people would climb up on the roof their abode to see a parent copulate?” Neda muses. “You’re on the verge of throwing up, and still you find this more arousing than regular pornography. Can you explain that to me?”

Noah’s cheeks heat up. “Hey, I didn’t know they'd be fucking when I climbed up here, okay? I was just exploring. Jessi told me Justin used to climb up on the roof of our old house. I just wanted to…” he trails off and takes the joint back to take another hit. Should dad or John look out of the window towards the cottage they might see him, and he'd have to explain himself. But honestly? He was more worried about getting caught smoking weed than being caught voyeuring. 

“That’s not what I asked. What makes this better than what you usually watch?”

Noah squirms, looking at Neda’s bemused squint, leans back against the chimney and sighs. “It’s the way they look at each other. Just look at them. It’s like they can't get enough of it. Like they're afraid it'll all go away if they don’t keep looking. Like they're awed by each other. And the kisses. Fuck, but they don't kiss like that in porn.” There was more to it. Yeah, it’s envy. A deep seated longing to have that. Despair, since he became more and more certain of who ‘The One’ is for him, and he is pretty sure that train had left the station while he was still stuck looking at the map, trying to figure out where he needed to go. But there’s just a chance he’s confused about it. Maybe he doesn’t feel what he thinks he feel. It could have been a fluke.

Watching dad and John have sex is both disgusting and amazing. They had what mom and dad had been missing. He can’t put his finger on how he can see it. But there it is. 

“Your father was always a physical worshipper.”

Noah snorts in amusement, imagining dad worship like that in church. 

_Yeah right._

“I want what they've got.”

“Why didn’t you bring your woman along then?” Neda asks. But his tone is flat. Sometimes it’s like he knows the answer but asks anyway. You never know with him.

“Caroline wasn’t _my_ woman. We had a deal. For convenience. It’s no longer convenient so I broke up with her.”

“Wrong. She was your woman, and would gladly have remained so despite the distance between you. Why else do you think she put up with being ignored until whenever you deemed fit to spend time with her?”

“I was honest with her. She isn’t the one.”

Neda scrutinizes him, making him want to hide. “I can make you forget about him. When the time is right, you'll remember. Until then, life will be so much easier if you don't think about him that way.”

How the hell could Neda know what bothers him? He hasn’t told him. He can’t be _that_ transparent, can he? “Him? I don't know who you're talking about.” 

Forgetting. 

The mere thought of forgetting what that kiss, half a year ago, made him feel, brings him to near panic. The fucking Earth had shifted and nothing is the same since. The longing got worse the longer they were apart, but he'd rather suffer the heartbreak than forget. 

Neda scoffs and takes the joint back, halting his movement halfway through getting it towards his mouth. “In case I have to go away soon, I want to inform you that one of my siblings will show up, and that you can trust them as much as me,” he says, then takes a hit on the joint, inhaling excessively deep. 

Noah snorts then succumbs to giggles. “I can’t trust you for shit,” he says. It’s not quite true. Neda not only keeps secrets, but helps him do stuff he shouldn’t. Like when he went clubbing and was about to try some pills he was offered. Neda had just yanked him away and steered him towards another guy. He'd stuck a bill in Noah’s hand and whispered to him to shake the guy’s hand with the bill folded inside. He’d done so and gotten a little bag with several pills stuck in his pocket. Neda had instructed him to only take one to begin with then made sure he was safe and sound throughout. But Neda’s strange and has his own agenda. Of that, Noah’s sure.

Neda scoffs. “You think _I_ have my own agenda? Wait until you meet my siblings. Worst case, they have no agenda. _Or_ they’re creatures of the sword.”

Noah laughs out loud. “Dude. Why would no agenda be a bad thing? And _creatures of the sword?_ Just call ‘em soldiers, if that's what they are.”

Noah must be higher than he thinks, because no smoke escapes when Neda answers. “I care about you on a personal level. I don’t see you merely as a means to an end. I also want you to succeed in your quest. As pitiful as your species is, I hold affection for you. Granted, not as much as I do for the ants. Still. I like you. And we're all soldiers. We have different affiliations. I am not affiliated. With the sword.”

Noah giggles. The weed has done its job. “So what’s your affiliation then, _soldier?_ ”

“The Messenger,” Neda answers loftily. 

“Lies. All lies,” Noah challenges teasingly, bumping Neda’s shoulder with his own. 

“It’s mostly true.”

“Mostly?”

“My affection for your species makes me partially affiliated to The Light,” Neda whispers, leaning close while looking watchfully towards the sky. 

“Why are you whispering? Nobody can heeeeear us,” Noah stage whispers back. “Besides, the sword sounds cool. Why aren't you affiliated with the sword?”

“ _Because_ ,” Neda patiently replies, “The Sword wants you all dead. It’s nothing personal. He just think you’re horrible, and that the Lord should do another remake, this time trying to get rid of the flaws infused in all living creatures, by the Light. I don’t know why he thinks it's possible. The Lord has failed all the other times. The changes are permanent and in every soul.”

Noah laughs. He really shouldn't play into Neda’s delusions, but they’re entertaining. “So if one of your siblings show up, affiliated with the sword, why should I trust them again?”

Neda blinks at him in confusion. His eyes wander from side to side like he's thinking, he squints like he's making the same deduction as Noah just did. He looks back at Noah, dead serious, and says, “You _gotta_.”

Noah keels over to the side to Neda’s shoulder, laughing. When they first met Neda he spoke very archaic, but had since picked up a more normal way to talk, occasionally. And sometimes he would drop a line like this, randomly, out of nowhere. Noah doesn’t have to ask where he gets it from. The kids at school said it all the time, and Neda had a strange fascination for Noah’s laptop, like he'd never used one, or surfed the Internet before. If that was the case, he learned fast. Noah remains heavily leaned on Neda’s shoulder, looking up to see him wearing that smug smirk he always wears when he’s made someone he likes laugh. “Dude, you’re totally stoned,” Noah teases.

“Oh.” Neda lets out a large puff of smoke. “I see. So this is the difference between cigarettes and weed. Weed makes the vessel stupid. Obliterating clarity. I should not indulge in it any more.”

Noah raises his hand holding the joint, towards Neda’s lips. He watches him lean forward and close his lips around the joint. Noah inches up close to Neda’s face and stares in fascination at the puckered lips and the joint burning down to nothing as Neda inhales the drug he just said he wouldn’t indulge in. “This is weak stuff. Wish we had more,” Noah states. Neda takes a new joint out of his pocket and holds it out to him. “Dude, you just said you've never tried weed.”

“I haven’t.”

“Then why did you carry a joint in your pocket?” 

“I didn’t. I just went to get it for you. You wanted something stronger.”

Noah laughs again and takes the new joint. “Whatever. Can you light it for me? I dropped my lighter through the hatch when I climbed up.”

“Pray for it.”

“Pfft. Yeah right. Dear Lord, please would you light my dobie,” he pretends to pray sarcastically.

“No. Pray to me,” Neda says with a smirk. 

“Dear Neda…”

“Angel of the Lord,” Neda fills in. 

“Dear Neda, Angel of the Lord, bringer of dobies, will you please grant me the fire necessary to enjoy the gift you bestowed on me. Amen,” Noah mock prays. The joint flares at the end. “Whoa. How did you do that?” he exclaims, impressed, and takes a deep breath of smoke. 

“I'm an angel. And even if they force me to go home, you can always pray to me. Always. They can’t stop me from answering prayers, if they are directed towards me personally. Do you understand? When you need anything, pray to me.”

Noah coughs. The weed is a great bit stronger than the crap he’d gotten from the pusher in Pine Glen. His limbs go loose and he feels like pleasant mush. The repulsion at seeing his dad have sex fades, but the arousal doesn’t. “Whatever you say. This is good stuff. Here. Try it.” Once again he holds the joint to Neda’s lips, watching him inhale. “You always say that the vessel that harbour the soul isn’t of import. You don’t care about gender or sex of a person, right?”

“Correct.”

“Does that make you pan, bi, or poly?”

Neda frowns in confusion. His eyelids are heavy and eye whites red, his body lax. “Do I need to be classified like some science project?”

Noah chortles. “No. Of course not. Of course not. ….I was thinking, you know what we should do?”

Neda shakes his head. “No. This substance truncates my clarity. I currently cannot see your intentions.”

Noah laughs. “It’s a rhetorical question, you moron.”

“Oh.” Neda gives him a pleased, lopsided smirk for laughing. Noah thinks Neda might be the only one he knows who enjoys being the butt of jokes. 

“We should make out.”

“Why?”

“Because we're watching live porn and getting stoned, and kissing is nice. Plus, you swing both ways don't you? No harm, no foul. I don’t want to do more than kiss, and you're not interested in me as anything more than a friend. It’s perfect. Uncomplicated.”

Neda sniggers. “Are you trying to take advantage of my intoxication? It won’t work. I’m only affected because I choose to allow it. I can get myself sober with a snap of my fingers. '”

“Oh yeah? So why don't you, hotshot?”

“These vessels are nifty. I wish to explore what they can do while I'm still authorised to wear one.”

Noah giggles. He looks back at the window and leans against Neda’s relaxed shoulder. Neda smells like fresh baked cookies. It’s probably all the sugar he consumes. John has his dad pressed up against the seafront facing window, his dad’s legs wrapped around his midriff, and is kissing him while fucking him, holding him up. They frequently break the kiss just so they can look each other in the eyes. They look so God damned happy, despite being covered in sweat and muscles straining. “Whatever. So what do you say? Make out for a bit?”

“It would be reprehensible.”

“Why? I'm a hundred percent sure God doesn't mind two men being together. You’ve said so yourself. And all I want is to kiss.” Noah leans away from Neda. He takes one more drag on the potent joint and hands it over. Then he shuffles to the side so the chimney doesn’t prevent him from laying down and look at the stars. It’s 10 PM over here, and 7 PM in California, where Justin is. 

Neda scoffs. “Angels aren't allowed to couple with humans. I wouldn’t settle for kissing if I were to break that rule. You ever heard of nephilim? How were you going to explain your pregnancy? Hmm?”

Noah cackles. It’s hilarious. He’s a funny guy, Neda. A total loon. “Yeah, okay. A simple no would have sufficed, ‘ _angel_ ’,” he says and turns his head to smile fondly at his weird friend. 

“I said ‘no’,” Neda claims. 

“Liar. You said ‘why?’, ‘it would be reprehensible’, and asked if I was trying to take advantage of you. Never did you decline outright. I wouldn’t have pushed the matter if you had.”

Neda shakes his head, and looks at the master bedroom window with a lazy smile. “You and your sire both managed to find the two rules I undeviatingly have to adhere to, and tempt me to break them. I'm convinced you’re being difficult on purpose.” Neda is definitely stoned now. This is a statement that normally would be delivered with disgusted expression, not a content one. 

“It’s my purpose in life,” Noah jokes. “You wanna go for a walk? I can't keep watching this or I'll be sick to my stomach tomorrow when I remember them without being stoned. I wish there was mind bleach so I could forget this.” He makes a vague gesture towards the window where John has carried his dad to the bed. 

“You wish to forget this moment?” Neda asks, seeming troubled by that.

“Not really. I want to remember the love, joy, and passion dad and John have. I just don’t want to remember what they look like fucking, or that I got turned on watching. And hey, with how strong the shit you came with is, maybe I'll get lucky.”

“You will,” Neda answers decisively. They’re walking down the path towards the water. Noah could have sworn they were on the roof of his cottage a second ago. He isn’t bothered by his mind blacking out. It’s the very purpose of using drugs to begin with. It drowns out the longing he shouldn’t be feeling, and makes the ecstasy of divine answers less taxing. It had been hard enough before Justin kissed him and he only had divine feelings and responsibilities to deal with. But now…

“So why would you be bothered by me forgetting tonight?” Noah asks, thinking of Neda’s troubled expression earlier. 

“I'm constantly a witness to unlikely choices. There’s nobody watching us right now and I'm making an unlikely choice of my own by allowing myself to be intoxicated. I don’t think I'll let it happen again, even if they let me stay. Vesseled. So it's pleasing to me to be witnessed.”

“Huh. Yeah, I guess we all want to be seen. But why would you want to be seen at your most vitiated moment?”

Neda smirks and side eyes him. His eyes are almost luminous in the moonlight. “It’s a moment of. Learning. This experience is something only one of my siblings understands and has experienced. It’s monumental. And many species on all inhabited planets do it. Not only humans. Insects, birds, mammals, they all seek to poison themselves for pleasure. We are rarely in a form when we can experience it. It baffles us. I now possess knowledge that is. Unique. It pleases me that this is known by someone.”

Noah laughs and takes a couple of dancing steps. “So what you're saying is that you're enjoying getting stoned,” he states. 

Neda scoffs. “Simplified, yes. Although.” Neda doesn’t finish the sentence. 

Noah is quiet for a couple of beats before he realises Neda’s not going to finish. “Although what?” he asks. It’s a bit cold. Only 55 °F . He should have worn a jacket over the sweater. 

“It’s also a bit. Unsettling.” 

They’re down by the waterline now. A sandy stretch of beach littered with seaweed and smooth stones polished round by the waves. Noah picks one up and throws it with a flick of the wrist. The stone bounces three times before it sinks. “Unsettling how?”

“My usual senses are diminished or distorted. I can’t hear every thought everyone in within a certain radius are thinking, and I'm only seeing a few possible futures that seem to be spawned at random rather than ordered by how likely they are. I'm more grounded in the vessel and as such, more grounded in this dimension and time line. It’s. Disconcerting. Almost frightening.”

Noah laughs. “Wait. So you’re saying that you feel _less_ removed from the real world, and that scares you?”

“I'm not scared.” Neda smacks his lips in vexation. 

“No, yeah, sure. But you feel less removed from the here and now?”

“I guess you could say that. And my vessel feels slow, stupid, heavy, and relaxed. It likes the sensation. I don’t know why. Plus I have a great urge to eat.”

Noah laughs again. The rock he tries to skip only bounces once before sinking. “ _Dude_. You always have a great urge to eat.”

Neda giggles. “I suppose. But that's due to curiosity. Not as a response to need.” 

There’s something precious about Neda’s doped out, red eyed, open and relaxed expression. Noah figures that Neda might actually believe that he’s an angel. And if you’re constantly spaced out, believing you have superpowers, then suddenly get medicated to stop feeling that way, it must be a terrifying feeling. So Neda’s being vulnerable and trusting. It makes Noah a bit soft in the middle to think of the trust it took to take that first hit on the joint. Neda is a bit like a dog that will only take treat from his master. No. More like a cat, since there’s no way to control him. He comes and goes as he wants. Still, Noah is touched. Neda has declared to him, that he’ll remain by his side for as long as he’s on the God given mission he’s accepted. Noah had doubted it until he found Neda on their doorstep here. David too, was coming. Currently he was looking for cheap rental listings in town. Whatever happened, he wouldn’t be alone.

How Neda knows how to get drugs, and why he’s walking around with wickedly strong weed in his pocket, when he's not a user, is a mystery though. “Are you a drug dealer?”

Neda looks confused. “I don’t understand.”

“You know all about how to get drugs, and this isn’t the first time you've supplied me with them, yet you say you've never tried any before. I figured, maybe you sell them.”

Neda does a full body eye roll, picks up a stone, and hurls it into the water with a plopping sound. “I know what a drug dealer is, Noah. I don’t understand why you think I am one. The word dealer implies that I'd ask for something in return. To your knowledge, I never have.”

“Yeah, but it's the whole freebie thing. The first couple of times they'll give it to you for free, to get you hooked. Then you'll have to pay. I can pay for it. You don’t have to lure me into it. Just tell me how much I owe. Can you skip stones? Like this?” Noah takes another stone and throws it with a flick of his wrist. It skips five times before it sinks. 

Neda takes up a stone and holds it in his hand. “I do not wish to be. Paid,” he says, disgustedly. “You hear me better and recuperate faster when you take mind altering substances. I do not wish to see you burned to a husk just so you can carry out the task the Lord ask of you. It may seem unconventional in the eyes of most humans, but it makes you more attuned to receive visions, without risking getting lost in them. I know you're not chasing ecstasy. I know you're chasing the lack of feelings to counter for the stress, the pressure, the pining, and the vast emptiness after experiencing the Lord’s presence. You'll suffer some because of your choice of relief. But in the end, it works.”

Noah grins dopily at him. “Oh yeah? You know all these things, do you?”

“Yes.”

Noah walks up to Neda and stands face to face with him, resting his forearm on his shoulder. “Then tell me what other choice do I have? Huh? If you know everything. What other outlets would work?”

“Sex. If you wanted it, I'd supply you with willing partners. Pain. I'd make sure you wouldn’t accidentally kill yourself, or I'd introduce you to the right person, if you preferred someone else to cause it. Violence. But with your empathy, that’s not an option for you personally.”

“Yeah, no. None of that shit are options for me. And if they were, I wouldn't want you to _get_ me someone to do it, I'd want you to do it. That’s what friends are for. Sex, pain, violence, all that requires trust.”

Neda throws the stone away with a flick, without breaking gaze. Noah counts the sound of the stone skipping on the water as the sound recedes. He can’t hear it sink. It just keeps on skipping out of earshot. Neda smirks. “There are things I won't do for you, Noah.”

“Yeah. You said. You don’t want to make out with me. It’s cool. It was just a suggestion anyway.”

“What I want has nothing to do with it. You have a talent for reaching a partner’s soul when you kiss someone. Do you know what happens when a soul touch a grace?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

“I bet it's awesome. You sure you don't want to find out?” Noah leans closer and Neda doesn’t lean away. But when they’re almost close enough to kiss, Neda’s lips quirk in a teasing smirk and he moves his head a little to the side without breaking gaze. Noah’s seen him do this to Justin at New Year's Eve. Snake charming. If he keeps trying to kiss Neda, Neda’s lips will always be one breath away from his, never touching. Noah abruptly steps away, holding his hands up, palm out. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm toasted. I won't bug you about it. You don’t want to. I know, I know. My bad.”

“You want to kiss me because my vessel is male and you want to know if it was a fluke, what happened when you kissed a male before. You want to know if you feel like that kissing any male, or if it was just him. I am not offended by this. But I currently cannot see how it would affect the future, hence I must refrain. I don’t know if I wish to break that rule or not. I do enjoy exploring the sensations my vessel allows me to experience. But I've only been in one for a couple of months. I don’t know what I want or like yet. It doesn’t matter. I'm not here for me.”

“First off, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Second off,...” Noah looks around and starts searching the beach for something. He picks up a flat stone, rubs it against his cheek, drops it and picks up another one, repeating the process. 

“What are you looking for?”

“Pleasant sensations. I've got an idea. You’re mad. Completely off your rocker. But we're gonna go with it and pretend that you're an alien that just arrived, and I'm going to make this solely about you.” He finds a smooth enough stone and moves on to search for other items. “You’re right. You've done so much for me. It’s time to focus on you.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I don’t care. We're gonna go out on the dock to the float, light up the joint again, take a hit on it, then you're going to lay down, close your eyes and just feel.” Noah manages to find a couple of items and returns to Neda. “You in?”

“I'm. In.” Neda raises the lit joint to his mouth and takes a drag on it before passing it over. They walk side by side down the dock. Surprisingly, it’s marginally warmer here. The faint breeze coming in from the ocean is the cause. The sound of the crickets is muted, drowned out by the clucking of the water and the rush of the waves hitting the beach. They sit down at the end of the float, dangling their legs over the edge. The two lanterns at the end of the dock reflect in the sea, the moon is full and lights up what the lanterns can't. It’s a bit spooky, but Noah likes it. He’s not looking forward to leaving. If he could choose, he'd never leave. He’d get a simple job nearby and hang out with a small group of people. His chosen future scares him more than a dark ocean under a full moon ever can. All the water around him makes him think of Justin. It makes him restless even doped out. Once they've finished the joint Noah bids Neda to lay down and close his eyes. 

He starts with the stone, dragging its cold, smooth surface over Neda’s face slowly. He does it for a little while before he warms the stone up and continues. He switches to a tufted straw, watching Neda’s face twitch at places where it tickles. “It’s a shame it's so cold. I could have done this on your torso too if it wasn’t.”

Neda sits up and pulls his jeans jacket and T-shirt off, then lies back down with eyes closed.

“Dude, you’ll freeze.”

“I will. Not. Please do continue. I enjoy it.”

Noah lets the grass trail down to the chest and belly, playing with it there, then switching to a feather. He keeps it up, changing back to the stone, using his own fingers, nails, even lips. He drags his lips over Neda skin, blowing or exhaling to cause extra warmth or cold. He bites softly at Neda’s midriff, things he wouldn’t normally do without feeling intrusive or awkward, considering Neda’s a _guy_ , who turned down kissing him. It’s intimate.

Once when he and Justin had smoked weed together, back when Justin was still in his class and banned from competing, Justin had done something similar to him. He’d only massaged Noah’s scalp, and played with a straw of tufted grass on his skin. Much more low key. But nice.

He’s no longer turned on. It’s the furthest thought from his mind at the moment. He’s almost hypnotised, swept up in the moment and set solely on the task of giving Neda’s ‘vessel’ different, pleasant sensations, alternating between his head and torso. He stays away from the nipples and other parts that he thinks would risk arousal. He gives himself over to the pretense that Neda truly is alien, and never has experienced tickles, bites, feathers, smooth stones, grass, growing up. The float moves with the waves, adding another lulling element to it all.

He has no idea how long he’s at it before Neda opens his eyes and sits up. His eyes reflect the light strangely, seeming to glow blue from a light of their own, eye whites clear. “Thank you, Noah. I appreciate this gift. Let’s go back. We’re being seen again.”

When Noah wakes up in the morning he sits up, thinking back on the night. It’s awkward, remembering. He’d watched his dad have sex, to begin with. Although, he can only remember his and John’s expression of joyful awe, nothing more graphical than that, thankfully.

He thinks of what he did to Neda yesterday. They were friends alright. Neda could be very particular about who got to touch him or not. Another one of his weird traits. Noah’s never done anything like that to a guy. Caressing, with fingers and mouth. It’s too intimate. Too gay. But in hindsight, he’d enjoyed it as much as Neda had.

_I’m definitely not straight then. Figures._

He’d kinda known that since Justin’s kiss. But yesterday he’d applied theory to practise, and yep. The experience of intimacy was equally satisfying as it had been with any girl up until now.

You can’t blame being high for that. TV and movies will try to make you believe that you turn into some completely different being while doing drugs, even just smoking weed. That’s incorrect. You lose inhibitions, and do all kinds of stupid shit, but retain the essence of who you are. Like that guy who saw a house burn and a dog stuck inside, drove his car through the fence, broke the window, climbed inside and saved the dog. Only, he’d been high out of his mind and hallucinated the fire, destroyed property and stolen the dog. His core was good, hence ‘saving’ the dog. Had he been a bad person he might have watched in spite or malicious pleasure. So, if Noah didn’t have a general attraction to guys too, drugs wouldn’t have changed that.

Noah falls back into a lying position with a heavy sigh. “Whelp. That’s inconvenient,” he tells the empty room. Because what the hell is he going to do about the situation, when he might be a bit too smitten with his adoptive brother?

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Always thankful for comments. :)


End file.
